


Writer in the Dark

by luciferousdeeds



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Eating Disorders, Graphic Description of Corpses, Haley - Freeform, I'm sorry for the tags I wrote at 2 a.m., Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Non-Graphic Smut, Not self insert, OC, Other, POV First Person, Psychosis, Purple Prose, Stardew Valley - Freeform, elliott - Freeform, elliott's a romantic writer sue him not me, every relationship except for the elliott/oc one is really brief or not the main focus so..., headcannon names, male farmer - Freeform, monsters in the woods, neglectful relationships, non-canon child hair colors, pierre - Freeform, sebastian is the mr. miyagi of bottoming, stardew valley gothic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-02-01 05:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12698106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferousdeeds/pseuds/luciferousdeeds
Summary: Four linked spirits, who know more in a second than we'll ever know in a lifetime. Four empty-hearted children, finding solace in strange bedfellows. One omnipotent cat. An ever-present power, humming softly in the shadows. These are what make Pelican Town's heart beat infinitely.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hey, guys!! My first post on here!! If you didn't read the tags, this isn't self-insert, okay? It's just like...This is how Elliott does intimacy, I guess. As though he's talking to the farmer, I guess. So...NOT SELF INSERT. And there will be no porn (unless I post it separately) because I know it makes certain people uncomfortable and I feel like it would cheapen this up. Check out my pinterest, @whenwesleep (Matt Wormington) for character aesthetics/spoilers.

23 Winter, Year 7

 

     There isn’t much for you to hold on to anymore. There are no marionette strings tied around your fingers to help you remember to come home every night. My forehead is pressed against your scarred, overheating chest, and I feel your fingers knead for purchase at my buzzed scalp, searching for anything to grasp besides the mere beginnings of regrowth. I know it is all you have left in the darkness of our bedroom. Our flickering fireplace cannot cut through the pitch black rolling over our bed like tar. I am not sorry I took one of your supports from you, though. You have better things to reach for, like the moon or the cooled cup of tea on the bedside table. Its scent fills the air around us still, reminding me far too much of you. You hang in the air around me, constantly in my lungs and my bloodstream. Even when you are cold, I shall never be rid of you.

     Your eerie quiet cuts through the rest, pure against the ambience of the farm surrounding us. I know you are tick, tick, ticking inside. If I should listen closely enough, I would likely hear the jagged, staccato beat of your heart as it pumped foreign blood throughout your blessed, unholy body. I may still have time to stop an attack on your already fragile sanity. Though I am certain my withered anatomy will no longer distract you so easily from the intrusive memories clouding your brain, there are other things I can try. My trembling hands run downward to find the dip-like scars on your thighs under the sheet. “Go to sleep, my love. You’re safe in my arms.” When you don’t respond, I whisper, “I promise.” My voice is rusted nails on the wounded rot of my throat. I taste blood. It’s jagged on my tongue, like our first kiss in lightning strike speed.

     Before I’m finished speaking to you, you wail my name in a voice so damaged, it hardly rises above a whisper though I know you’re doing your best to scream. Begging me for salvation. Pleading with me for assistance. Sobbing in a way that tells me your throat has been worn raw, too. We are blood. We are pieces of flesh hacked up by punctured, flooded lungs. 

     “Just one candle, Elliott,  _ please. _ ” 

     My breath comes in raw through my mouth, ripping down my throat. I can’t bear the scent of you now, so sweet, like honeyed tea. I’d give in too easily if it reached my head. Your words careen around the space in my cranium, and it takes me a moment to remember what I should say in response. “No. I’m here for you.” Forming words in your presence was difficult enough when you grinned; your sobbing makes it ever more impossible as it runs through me like the earth’s tremors, a quake unknown to all but us. The world is so quiet around us, having no idea what muted chaos takes place in the bed of a farmer and his uncertain spouse. Anyone else could have heard the way your breath stuttered more with each passing second. No one else would have understood the reason behind it, though. 

     This is the horror of our love. This is what has become of us, two hearts ripped in half then stitched together. You are scarred; I am sunken. Anyone with sense would undoubtedly have left you by now, or would have left me. The problem is, our senses so inextricably belong to each other--my touch is yours, my taste, my sight, my scent, my sounds. They are yours, and yours are mine. We are one creature; our synapses are permanently intertwined. My madness is yours. Your madness is mine.

     “God, please, I’m begging you,” you choke out, gripping me to your muscular body once more. I go stiff in your embrace, hardly knowing the what depth of absolute terror you must have reached to pray to your most insistent demon for mercy. “Elliott.” I can barely hear your heart-rending cry, even in the dead silence, and the damage to your voice makes my heart clench in pain. Your voice had been my favorite part of you, our private conversations being what would hold me together when your sudden, warm appearance would crack my frozen heart. 

     My hand finds yours behind my head as the darkness rips your voice away once more. “Go to sleep, Lucifer. Tomorrow will be kinder.” I pull your hand down and kiss at it gingerly. The once-silken sheets of our bed chafe at my dry, taut skin, but I feel no pain. My blood, black in the dim light, smears on your palm, like a sacrificial slice meant to summon something stronger than us both. I lick my lips, and sure enough, they are bleeding. It would not do to kiss you any more. You have seen enough blood in your life. My forehead returns to press against your torso, seeking the warmth you provide. 

     You do not sleep, not in body or in mind, but you do fall quiet. I can just barely detect the gentle rise and fall of your chest against my forehead. Your heart beats. You live on, another second, then another, until they blend into the grey, downy light of dawn. Your eyes remain wide open, trained on me. I know this despite not being able to see it. I’ve been yours for a long time now, longer than years can measure; I know the weight of your gaze. I know you. 

     I know that you constantly leave doors open behind you to allow light into every room you enter and exit. I know that you love our children as much as your earlier few, and that what broke you wasn’t really what lurked in the mines. I know you never meant to abandon us, or endanger yourself. I know you love me like the clouds love the sun. I know you think you’re not enough, and I know that you’re right sometimes.

     I know you. I know you. I know you. And oh, I do love you.


	2. 1 Spring, Year 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of basing a bit of this on the idea that the Ferngill Republic and the Gotoro Empire are both on Earth and are aware of, and unconcerned by, the nations surrounding them.  
> Also, I thought Haley and Elliott would make a very interesting duo. The prettiest girl and the prettiest boy. Yes, I know it says Elliott's friends with Leah on the wiki. Sue me, but only after you see how the plot evolves with such a relationship.

     I wake up having no clue today would be any different than yesterday. Aches cry out from everywhere on my body. As my legs swing over the side of my rickety cot, my knees give a crackling cry of protest and I am reminded that I am slowly killing my poor, innocent body. What has my body ever done to me? For twenty-eight years, this physical form has served as a vessel for every idea I’ve conceived, every thought I’ve grown, every motion I’ve made for my entire life; it has every right to object after a night of madness such as the one I put it through last night.

    While I sit still on the edge of my bed, my head swims with a kaleidoscope of emotions, most of them antagonistic and aimed at myself. Had I really spent another night drowning in alcohol at the saloon? Of course, I had. It had been new year’s eve. Even Penny, poor, sweet thing she was, had taken a sip of watered down mead. And as much as I had undoubtedly enjoyed celebrating the changing of the seasons, a night of heavy drinking was neither what my body nor my bank account had needed last night. Yet here I am, stumbling stiffly to the trashcan by my writing desk to vomit. As per usual.

     Truly, this is not the best way to start off the year. My new year’s resolution had not been to hold my own hair as I spew a putrid stream of last night’s regrets. I do just that, all the while wishing Haley and I had ended up sleeping together last night. Not, of course, in the biblical sense, but in the sense that she and I had stumbled home together and fallen asleep in the same bed. This happens more often than it ought to. All of this. The pathetic hangover, the horrific behavior last night, Haley and I falling into the same boat over and over again.

     “Oh, Yoba...” I groan the name of the valley’s god, sitting back on folded legs and placing my pounding head in my hands. My long hair falls forward to filter out most of the sunlight beaming cheerily through my glassless window, allowing the ache in my head to fade just slightly. The lessening of the pain gives way to a memory of the night before.

     Oh, dear. Exactly as I had feared. Haley and I had overzealously celebrated the coming of midnight with her giving me a kiss I still don’t know how I managed to reciprocate. I could still feel sunglow blonde curls weaved between my fingers, flavorless lipgloss smearing onto my own lips, the taste of the beer she’d been downing again. It still sent a minor shock through my body, the way she’d grabbed on to my shirt and yanked me over the table. 

     Of course, I should come to expect this sort of behavior from my best friend, especially under the influence of alcohol. It isn’t as though she’s never kissed me before; likely the whole town thinks we’re together, including that brash boy Alex, who believes he had some sort of claim to Haley since they occasionally speak in the summer and dance together at certain events.

     I shake off the greasy feeling that thoughts of that boy give me. There is no use getting even sicker, especially when I have so much to do to get myself back into (mostly) functioning order. While my momentary repulsion had taken my mind off the taste in my mouth, something had to be done about my hangover before I could even begin to try writing my quota for today.

     Can I withstand the disappointed look Harvey would give me if I wander into his clinic at...what time is it? Where is my clock? Is it even daytime or is that the moon glaring hatefully through my window? Perhaps I wasn’t out cold for as long as I had thought. Or, perhaps, I was asleep for much longer than expected. But one painful look directly out the window assures me that, yes, it is the sun boring into my aching cranium. What a lovely spring day. 

     Recalling quickly the task at hand, I pat at my shirt, then my pants, then crawl back over to the bed to search for my pocket watch. My hands grasp at the rough sheets, pawing through in a clumsy way while hoping not to find any unexpected sea creature nestling uncomfortably close to where my unconscious body had lain mere moments before. It takes less than a minute of scrambling to find the unpredictable little clock. It seems to have taken up residence inside my pillowcase, so I dig it out and open it to find that it is, regrettably, almost three in the afternoon. Harvey’s clinic closes at three as of late, so I am doomed to suffer the rest of today. Just what I deserve, actually. 

     Getting up from my floor with cracking knees, I let out a heavy sigh that ends with my lungs burning. I’ve made it through hangovers before. At this point, surely, I am an expert at withstanding my own self-inflicted morning horror. 

     What I need is coffee and mass amounts of fresh water. A quick survey of my small shanty alerts me to the fact that my grocery supply is lower than I remember it being yesterday. My bank account is not going to like this.

     Perhaps all I need is to go about today as I would any other day, I decide as I begin to change from yesterday’s rumpled outfit to something fresher (though maybe not as clean as it should be). My normal routine meant shopping for groceries (coffee!), doing the laundry, then writing. Nothing particularly strenuous; just enough to make it seem like I had been the productive, fully-functioning adult with a fulfilling life I often pretend to be.

     Of course, when every creak of a board beneath my feet sends me flinching and every step is an uneasy battle with gravity, it is difficult to exude my normal confidence. Instead of an air of poise and elegance surrounding me, surely the stench of last night’s ale and this morning’s sick reeks from my flesh like an aura of visible filth. I am briefly reminded of a comic from my youth--some child dubbed Pigpen due to his own atmosphere of grime. Perhaps this was my destiny. Filth and alcohol. Edgar Allan Poe had faced no better, and look how highly he is respected. 

     Still, I fight against the sense of walking on the deck of a ship and stumble like a bow-legged toddler into the unending sunshine beyond my doorway. The ocean greets me with a soft hiss, a million kisses flying up in droplet form. Though I certainly have no wish to get wet, the cool mist soothes my feverish skin. I scoop up a few shells and let them wash out with the tide. 

     They disappear beneath the ever-roiling war of the seas and I am left alone once more, a hungover man standing under the weight of my own sweat-soaked sorrows. The ocean spray drenches the front of my coat, discoloring it slightly, but I find myself not minding in the slightest bit. This is the tranquility I often crave between beers in the rowdy pub. Despite the sun shining down on me, the stabs at my temple slow in frequency and intensity. My sorrows are momentarily lifted from my shoulders. But time is of the essence; Pierre closes his shop at five, and though he often seems to have taken quite a liking to me (judging by casual conversations and past festivals alone) I doubt he would stay open any later for me.

     The wind buffets my chest, hair streaming back in ribbons of flame, as if the earth itself urges me to return to my path; time slips away far too quickly in the valley. Far quicker than it had back home, and I find myself wishing it had been the opposite. I would give my soul to stay in this moment forever, free and adored by nature itself.

      But alas; time is fleeting. My eyes open again, taking in the grey-blue view from my ‘front yard’.

   “Goodbye,” I murmur to the receding embrace of the ocean. My waterlogged feet take me to the partially overgrown passage from the beach to the town. Here the magnanimous, waxy leaves above shelter me temporarily from the sunlight streaming down from above. It’s too much for me now that the ocean is a dull roar in the background, too much for my narrowed eyes and cracking skull. Still, I have to withstand the solar misery once my shadowy canopy leaves me. As it does, I am thoroughly coated in the white light of day, and instead of purification, I feel magnification: every flaw left by last night’s bad decisions is on full display for the townspeople now, and though there are few of them likely to be better off than I am, I would still love to look better than I do at the moment. 

     As inconspicuously as possible, I lean down to sniff at the collar of my coat, then at my underarms. Nothing too unbearably wretched, just the scent of the sea. It seems fine enough to me until I run into  _ you _ . 

     It happens with so little notification that I scarce have time to notice the transition from bridgestones to pale spring grass before you stand beside me, radiating warmth and blocking out the sun. All I can see are your shoes at the moment. Heavy black boots that trample the new growth. Such gigantic boots could pass through magma and come out unmarred. Your heavily tattooed hand appears in my personal space, struck out in my direction, clutching a wilting dandelion with more daintiness than I ever would have expected. It occurs to me that this is a gift before I realize that I should probably look up to meet your gaze. But I find I cannot.

     “I…” I begin, staring at the yellow weed in your grasp. Suddenly, I am sure I stink. I am sure I reek of the stenches of vomit and alcohol and failure, polluting the fine, clean air of Pelican Town. I am unshakably certain that I have taken the form of some monstrous half-formed muck-fetus. There are pomegranate seeds in my teeth, though I haven’t eaten one since Fall. My coat is stained and torn and threadbare. My skin is dry and peeling; my freckles, however faded on my face, are unsightly. I am an overused washrag. A scrap of rotten fabric adrift in a filthy sea. I am nothing.

      I look up. 

     To allow myself to call you handsome would be the equivalent of calling the sun a star. Yes, it is undeniably true, the sun is merely one star in an infinite sea of them, and from any other place in the galaxy, it is merely a pinprick in the black velvet of some distant night sky. But the sun--to the earth, the sun is a god. It brings life to Earth in a way that a star billions of lightyears away could never hope to manage. And as I stare at you, lips drying, eyes wide, I feel new life stirring somewhere deep inside of my shell of a body. Some new evolution begins in every cell running rampant through my tributary veins, light blooming like some new form of Genesis. I feel my orbit change as breath returns to my aching lungs. My heart pounds in my chest, begging to be set free so it may follow this change in gravity.

     “Hmm…” I say to you, stalling for time. I wince at the sound of my own voice, now sounding so coarse and harsh even as just a hum in your overwhelming presence. But my mind is distracted and oh,  _ oh _ , I can feel the way your eyes move across my skin. Your heavenly blue gaze is stronger than any hand to ever caress my cheek. My own regard moves back down to the dying flower in your grasp, and I hear myself say, “I’m not a huge fan of this.”

     The ground might have collapsed under my feet. My knees may have folded under my body. What sort of wrathful curse had I just spat in the face of your refreshingly eager generosity? What sort of revolting mistake of nature am I?

     The world seems to slow for a moment, and I am stuck watching the butterflies fluttering around your head in the spring sunlight. They shoot down my throat and take up residence. Damnable squatters.

     You drop the flower, a crestfallen look crossing your once earnest face. I consider dropping myself from the cliffs on the far edge of town. Surely, it would be far better than the utter mortification in red crawling up my cheeks at the moment. But then the utter glory of your face in misery shocks my mind briefly back into dimness. Are you a saint? A martyr? In what holy mural have I seen such a melancholic angel in my lifetime? Surely, some renaissance great had laid hands upon this beauteous visage--carved it into marble, no, gold, or spent a decade painting your image for some massive cathedral. As I watch, honey drips from your skin in the form of sunlight, night coating your eyelashes and hair. Where could I place you in my memories? Who could you be?

     Your eyes remain on my heated cheeks and a grin so abominably crooked flashes your teeth at me. I know, with overwhelming clarity, who you must be.

     “You must be Lucifer,” I whisper, voice hardly audible as I stare at you in awe. You’re hardly taller than I am, three inches more at the most, but I still feel the need to look up at you. You tower over me in ways beyond height, and something previously unnoticed awakens deep within my soul in response to such a realization.

     But when my mind focuses once more, I realize you’re staring at me with an expression of confusion splayed across your lovely countenance. What have I done to earn such a perplexed expression? It takes me a moment before I realize I have called you by the name of the Christian devil, the morning star. This would surely alarm anyone, except I have the faintest memory of Mayor Lewis describing to me the elderly man who had once lived on the farm at the edge of town. Something about him having a whole host of biblically named grandchildren--one of whom had been controversially named Lucifer. While I had spent the last few years of my life under the gaze of the valley god, Yoba, I certainly had not forgotten the archaic foundations of my childhood; perhaps you are as fallen from grace as I consider myself to be. If your name was Lucifer after all.

     As I think, though, another murky memory of last night distracts my mind’s eye: had Lewis mentioned the coming of this stranger, you beautiful no-one, to the town? I had the vaguest certainty that he had.

     To cover myself and my almost total lack of conviction, I say, “Ah, the new farmer we’ve all been expecting…” My voice cracks into several pieces on its way up my vocal cords, and audible shards spew from my mouth. How can I explain myself? How can I explain this unsolicited name-calling? As you stare at me, confusion drifting to the most heavenly expression of concern, I add, “...and whose arrival has sparked many a conversation!” Hopefully, this will remove any suspicion you may carry.  _ Hopefully _ . 

     I bow in a way that seems pretentious even as I do it. When I come up, you’re smiling again, some tiny curve of your pink lips that sends my heart into dips and peaks that, in any other situation, I would get Harvey to check up on. After a moment of staring at you with a massively dopey expression, I say, “I’m Elliott.” My words come out as a wanton sigh, and I shock myself. Why not slobber all over you while I’m at it, hm? I force myself to straighten up and fold my hands behind my back, face petrifying into some stony semblance of pride. “Elliott Scott Roosevelt.” My own name falls from my mouth in the form of old money and older bloodlines, and I almost flinch at how stuffy I know I sound. But you are unaffected. You are marvelous.

     Your smile grows for a split second, then your tattooed hand comes up to your throat and I wonder briefly if you’re choking or something of that sort. But after a moment of struggling, you rasp, “I’m Lucifer.” Your accent stuns me. I had no suspicion that you would be from England--not London, I’m guessing. You glance around, the sunlight catching your eyes fabulously at every angle, before leaning close. I’m hit with scents that bring me back to age sixteen, when my family took our first vacation to the Ferngill Republic. Of course, we’d stayed in Zuzu City the whole time, and as I inhale again, I realize it’s just that oppressive odor that all big cities had. The scent of Jojacorp plastic seating and despair.

     Normally, this would easily mark the end of my infatuation. Jojacorp is one of the few things I openly and publicly despise, simply because my father had owned so much stock in them. 

     But I find myself standing still, your face inches from mine as you manage to whisper, “I live on the farm.” You jab your thumb over your shoulder in the direction of the overgrown farmland on the edge of the town. I can picture it now: rustic cabin rotting away where it stands with decades-old vines overtaking the stone foundations and wood paneling, fields ruled by a forest much younger than the ancient, arborous giants surrounding. More than once, Haley and I had snuck onto the premises, aiming for a photographic study of post-abandonment farmland, just to be scared away by the ghostly screams echoing through the forest. To think of such a celestial being inhabiting and rejuvenating such a hellhole is certainly an interesting thought.

     I glance over my own shoulder, back at the stone bridge and the leafy tunnel to the shore, then respond, “I live in the little cabin by the beach. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I smile gently back at you, wondering if your inability to speak clearly is brought on by shyness. Why someone as glorious as you would ever feel insecure, I have no clue. But when you rub your throat as you nod a silent goodbye, I can’t help but wonder if something more is behind this.


	3. 2 Spring, Year 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: internalized/externalized homophobia, as often seen in stereotypical 'small town gay' stories.

     I did not make it to the store on that sunny new year’s day. After meeting you, after spending those brief moments basking in the glow of your smile and the warmth of your gaze, I stumbled back home with a dazed expression and collapsed back into my bed to lay and be useless for the rest of the day. Thoughts fizzled out in my brain like drops of water on a heated stovetop, evaporating to disappear forever. I was left loose-jointed and dangle-limbed, staring at the patched ceiling above me and wondering idly if that feeling--when you smiled and made yourself a permanent part of my soul--was what it felt like to come back to life.

     You are life. You are rebirth. You are inspiration, oxygen in my lungs, sunlight in the sky. I am thrilled to have met you.

     Today, adrenaline rushes through me still. It is ice through every branching vein in my body, spikes of electricity in my heart, setting my nerves on edge and amplifying my perception. I can hear my own racing heartbeat, feel the blood pumping through my veins, hear subtle shifts in the air as ocean rises and falls. Because I have met you, the world is my oyster. I can seize the day. I can succeed. I just need to become truly yours first.

     Completely avoiding my writing desk--why should I let my dying occupation drag me down?--I dance across my beautiful, rustic hut to the front door, practically singing out of utter joy. My eyes are wide. My head does not ache. All the alcohol has been flushed from my system yet I feel like jumping on a table and dancing. Perhaps now I could do as such without falling on my derriere. 

     Not today, though. Today is for shopping and, of course, for progress. On all fronts, I decide then and there. Today I would write, and grow closer to you, and overcome my fears. I would dance in the rain (well, I would dance in the rain another day, seeing as the sky had yet to weep a single drop thus far) and not worry one bit about the state of my fiery mane.

     As I cross the bridge from the beach tunnel to the town, I take a cursory look around our sleepy little village to find you are nowhere to be seen. In every place my eyes are cast, I find no trace of your blessed existence and instead am greeted by the sight of Haley heading in my direction with a bored expression plastered on her attractive features. If only she knew what news I had to share. 

     “Hey, Elliott,” she says as she approaches, looking like she has no clue how my mind races. She comes to a stop, and for a moment, my breath is stolen by the way the light shines on her hair as though the golden curls are lit internally. That sunlight continues down into her face, with eyes blue like the sunlit summer sky and cheeks made red by a semi-permanent sunburn. Haley can’t tan but refuses to admit it to herself. Still, she exudes beauty despite her often seemingly shallow disposition. Even I, someone suddenly very sure of my homosexuality, can see that.

     “Hello, Haley,” I say, my voice smooth and even despite my unbounded excitement. “How are you this fine morning, hm? Out for a stroll?” Manners take precedence to familiarity, even when I’m absolutely bursting at the seams to tell her something, as I am now (excluding what happened yesterday, of course). I bow to Haley as I always do, and as per usual, she rolls her eyes in response. But I know she means little in the way of offense by doing this. It is merely her natural response to my formality.

     “I’m fine, Elliott. Still a little hungover, but whatever. It was totally worth it.” Last new year’s eve, Haley had been too sick with the flu to fuel her excitement with alcohol, which was a shame considering that had been her first year to legally drink. I recall she drank enough the other night to make up for 22 new year’s’ worth of sobriety. “Where are you going? Pierre’s?” she asks.

     I lift my bent arm towards her and she automatically slips her slightly callused hand into the crook of my elbow. “Of course. What can a man do without coffee, hm?” We slowly make our way in the direction of the town’s general store, ignoring the faint sound of the hellish jingles flowing from Jojamart’s open doors. As each second passes, I want more and more to burst and tell her about you, describe the perfect shape of your lips or the length of your eyelashes, but find myself shut into silence. Perhaps Haley would not care. Perhaps she would disagree entirely with your beauty (which I find incredibly hard to believe--that anyone could not see your glory, but then again, Haley finds beauty in things, and men, that I would hardly glance twice at) and we would end up arguing. That would not do. So I stay silent, my hand clasped over Haley’s.

     Finally, she says, “Have you met the new farmer yet? I met him yesterday.” When I stop dead in my tracks, Haley stops with me, staring at me. I do not respond, as stunned as I am, so she continues, “He’s totally gorgeous, but, like, his name is  _ Lucifer. _ What the fuck. And I’m, like, 85% sure he’s gay. I mean, seriously. He was wearing guyliner. It was super old, crusty guyliner, but still  _ guyliner _ .” Haley has very specific ideas as to what a gay man should look and act like, ideas perpetuated by many of her favorite movies. I try not to bother her about it because in many ways, I fit her stereotypes, and I’ve just proven them to be true by being so attracted to you. I suddenly fear what she may think if I tell her of my newfound love, though. Perhaps she’ll turn from me in disgust for falling so hard, so fast. 

     But while I quake in fear in the shadow of my best friend, my love for you stands tall, bursting from my skin and roaring loudly enough to shake the birds from the trees. My mind says: Be careful. You’ll no longer be alone with your thoughts. My heart screams, wordless and aching. Your divine image grows in my mind, stretching its boundaries until I have no room left for self-control.

     “I do believe I’ve finally given my heart away,” I say, turning to stare directly in her eyes, praying to every god I’ve ever known that she’ll take this moment to understand. Confusion first beams from her azure gaze, then she narrows her eyes and nods.

     “You’re spending the night tonight.” I am given no choice, only demands, but fortunately I am more than willing to spend time with Haley, despite some of her glaring flaws. When I do not protest, she resumes, “And we’re going to dissect the  _ fuck _ out of him. Everything he’s said and done so far.” She squeezes my arm and pulls me over to the bench in front of the saloon, where we sit facing each other, one of my knees touching one of hers.

     When we’ve sat, she swats at my upper arm and says, “Spill. What did he do? Did he ask you out? He was literally silent when we met. It was weird, but, I don’t know, also kind of hot, I guess, if you’re into that. I mean, I guess it’s better than him babbling about my boobs or something, but still.” She shivers. “Kind of weird. Not to mention he kind of looks like a villain in some second-rate fantasy show. Totally spooky but in a fake, ‘I dye my beard’ kind of way, you know?”

     I let her finish her spiel, then say, “Well, he told me his name, and then that he lived on the farm. Nothing more. Nothing less.” And once again, I notice what a breathy sigh my voice has become as I moon over you. I shake my head slightly to leave my minor stupor. As I do so, Penny, that sweet girl from the broken mobile home by the river, approaches. Her nose is buried in a book and she sits on the other end of the bench, completely blind to our presence. Even when Haley turns her body from the hips up to look at her, Penny remains so deeply involved in whatever fictional story her book provides that she doesn’t even look up.

_      That  _ is what I wish for. To write something so unbelievably enrapturing that the most beautiful, beloved girl in Pelican Town can look upon the reader and they will have no clue. But at the moment, all I have is a stack of blank paper in a trunk by my bed, broken quills in an empty inkwell, and a mind blank of all things but you. 

     Slowly, Haley turns back to me and shrugs. “Whatever. She’s not listening. But seriously, you have to spend the night. I just ordered more cupcake mix.” With this, she stands. “Emily’s friend’s having it delivered from the Calico Desert by drone, so it should be here soon.” She reaches down to smooth her skirt, then turns around and asks, “How do I look from behind?”

     I take a gander and my cheeks flush. “Ah...your, um, your unmentionables are...visible,” I say, clearing my throat. I feel heat all the way up to my hairline, and I have to pause momentarily to cover my eyes. When I remove my hand, Haley faces me, hands on my shoulders. The sudden proximity stuns me, and my eyes widen to find her so close. She’s frowning slightly, eyebrows furrowed as our eyes meet. I can see where that tiny wrinkle between her eyes originated.

     “Elliott…” she begins, voice low and suddenly very, very serious. “Say  _ panties. _ ”

     My heart skips a beat. I force my head to the side. “I’d rather not, Haley. I’m perfectly fine saying ‘unmentionables’.” A lump has formed in my throat, and suddenly it’s rather difficult to speak. I remain silent, even when Haley arches her eyebrow, which is an act that normally wears me down to nothing.

     “Elliott, if you’re going to get into a relationship, you’re gonna have to stop being such a total prude, okay? I mean, unless Lucifer’s got some weird virgin kink, he’s going to have to teach you  _ everything _ , which is totally not cute.” She paused to brush some hair behind my ear, then smooth down the hair at my temples. “Not that you aren’t cute. But he’s going to figure out whose best friend you are, and then he’s gonna fault  _ me _ for leaving you in the dark. Anyway, just say panties, okay? I believe in you, doofus.”

     I scowl at her, crossing my arms in an attempt to steady myself. I find it immensely difficult to say no to her when she’s as gentle and kind as she is now. “Why would I need to say that anyways, hm? I doubt either he or I will ever have cause to discuss women’s undergarments. I believe the whole point of being a male homosexual is to remove women from the equation.”  

     Haley rolls her eyes and says, “Say it, Elliott. Stop being such a pussy.”

     I huff and twist out of her grip, lips pursed and arms still very much crossed. Haley straightens up, her own arms crossing as she looks down at me with all the wrath of a sun goddess. Quickly, anger fades to discomfort, and I glance at Penny, who has still yet to notice us. I look back at Haley, then the cobbled ground beneath my feet, before mumbling some gibberish-like version of the word Haley wished for me to repeat.

     The goddess is unsatisfied. “Louder, Elliott. Come on.” Anyone else would easily describe her tone as snotty, bratty, spoiled, but I certainly know better. I also know very well that she means business when her stance is set as it is at the moment, shoulders regally thrown back and head held high. 

     I take a deep breath and grab hold of the edge of the bench. Beads of sweat break out on my forehead and for a few seconds, my lips are screwed tightly shut. Finally, I manage to say clearly, “...panties.”

     “ _ Louder _ ,” Haley demands a second time, her glare holding enough power to supply all of Pelican Town for decades, should we find a way to convert pure, natural wrath into a source of energy. Of course, we cannot do such a thing, so all of her power is trained directly on me, a shriveled wisp of a supposedly confident man. I would not consider myself a coward, but stronger men than I had perished under her gaze when it was wielded as a weapon.

     Before I realize what’s leaving my mouth, I shout, “Panties!” I am loud enough to startle poor, skittish Penny, who jerks and stares at me with wide green eyes. She clings to the edge of the bench, looking at me and Haley as her cheeks redden.

     “Elliott?” she asks in concern, her voice high and soft and reminiscent of Disney’s Snow White. “What...why are you shouting... _ that _ ?” She glances at me and Haley.

     I wish I could disappear and find myself in your arms, wherever you are. Whatever you’re doing at this moment surely must be infinitely better than having to explain myself to Penny, with Haley watching smugly from where she stands in front of me.

     “It’s nothing, Penny. I’m sorry to bother you.” I smile congenially at her, hoping to smooth things over, and her cheeks flush even brighter. Oh, dear. I’d hate to give this poor creature the wrong impression. “Please excuse me,” I say, glancing once at my pocketwatch before standing. “I have to go grocery shopping today. Penny.” I bow to the lovely girl. “Haley.” I bow to my best friend. “I’ll see you soon, I suppose.”

     I can almost see the war in her head, trying to decide whether to be proud of me for doing as she’d said or angry for my leaving in such a cold manner. Finally, she wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me close. I’ve always been flattered by her willingness to embrace me so thoroughly; it often messes up her carefully applied makeup. It doesn’t now, though, as I can see when she pulls away.

     “Yeah, so, see you at six?” she asks, looking up at me. I forget to answer for a moment, studying the way her hair falls over her face. It’s very flattering, I think as I reach out to brush it back behind her ear.

     I blink away my distraction and start nodding. “Oh, yes, six. I’ll see you then.” I bow to her, shallow but graceful, and when I straighten up once more, she’s headed off back toward her house. I watch her go, missing her already. I have never grown so close to anyone in my life, and I cherish our friendship, no matter how dysfunctional it may seem at times. I cherish it immensely because while she often seems overbearing, Haley is the only person who’s stopped to look past my exterior to what lies within. Perhaps she’s thankful that I did the same for her.

     I look down at my pocket watch to find that it’s already so late in the day. With hastened steps, I leave Penny and the bench behind to head for Pierre’s.

     The store is almost abandoned when I arrive, and Pierre stands behind the counter boredly wiping down his eyeglasses. I approach the front desk and lean gently on it, smiling in a friendly way at the owner of Pelican Town’s only acceptable store. The older man glances up from his glasses and narrows his eyes before jerking slightly, obviously realizing why I seem so blurry.

     “Hello, Pierre,” I say gently, tapping my fingernails on the counter. I lean a bit so that my hair hangs down like a curtain of autumnal orange on my left side. “Have you ordered coffee recently, by any chance? I find myself in dire need of some.” As I speak to him, my mind wanders briefly to you once more, and my voice returns to that honeyed exhalation of desire. I feel heat rush up to my cheeks and my back straightens up. Pierre stares at me, eyes wide and body leaning a bit backward. 

     After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he clears his throat and says, “I...yeah, I ordered more coffee. It’s all over there.” Pierre points to the right side of the store, where all the shelves stand, and I shamefully drag myself over to the shelf where the tins of coffee are. Mortification sends heat all the way down my neck, and I can feel his gaze trained on me. It takes all my will not to look away from the coffee and stare him down. On one hand, I can completely understand him staring at me, after the odd exchange we just had, but at the same time, I have an unexplainable hunch that he is staring a bit farther down than one might expect.

     Before I can gather the nerve to call him out for whatever he may be doing, the bell above the front door rings and I turn to see who has entered the store. I cannot deny the rush of hope I feel, thinking that it may be you, nor can I deny the chills racing up my spine when you enter my view.

    There are no dark corners when you walk in. Your glorious internal glow lights up the whole store as if you are everywhere, radiating the golden light of day, in every molecule of air surrounding us. Your luminescence warms me from the lungs to my bloodstream, relaxing me and lightening my head. Unsteady now, I go back to looking back at the coffee tins on the shelf before me. Suddenly, the word ‘coffee’ makes absolutely no sense. I find that I do not care. I stare anyways and listen in absently on your conversation with Pierre. I can still see you in half of my gaze.

     You approach the counter, hands and boots absolutely coated with mud. Your eyes do not find mine, and instead, you struggle for a moment and finally ask Pierre hoarsely, “Seeds?” I watch pain crumple your face just slightly and immediately, your hand returns to your throat. As you rub at the skin there, I wonder what that black stubble would feel against my own flesh. The thought sends goosebumps up and down my arms. How positively divine that would be.

   Pierre rummages under the counter for a moment before standing back up and passing you a crumpled piece of printer paper. You scan it briefly, blue eyes moving ceaselessly over whatever is printed in black there. 

     I realize after a moment that I am once again staring in your direction, my own eyes roaming over your body, your face, with a jaw hanging slightly and, undoubtedly, drool dribbling from the corner of my mouth. I wipe at my lips, just to be sure, and shake my head. I’ve had about enough of this. If I’m to woo you in any way, Haley’s right. I must grow my self-confidence and learn the ways of courtship in this modern era. That is to say, I would most definitely swipe right for you. I would be greatly touched should you call me your ‘bae’. I would love to go on a date to...a...tapas bar? A...club?

     Frankly, I am incredibly out-of-touch with today’s youth, even for a resident of Pelican Town, where the internet is a commodity acquired only after many long, angry arguments with the nearest internet service provider, and even then, the wireless connection is third-rate at best. Believe me, I would know. I spent my first year here taking trips to Zuzu City with Haley to complain to Jojacorp’s internet sector.

     “...but I’m pretty sure he’s gay, so you might not want to stand too close, am I right?” someone, Pierre, jokes, breaking my concentration and making me drop the tin of coffee in my hands. It crashes to the ground with a massive clang, its top busting off and its contents flying out to cover the ground.

     You and he had been watching me. Speaking of me. You had enough of an interest that even Pierre, the most tone-deaf man in all of Pelican Town, noticed your attention and gave you a general outlook on my personality. Or, rather, my perceived sexuality. I suppose they must be intertwined for Pierre, of course. 

     But I cannot think about Pierre’s total lack of social awareness at the moment, as there is a pile of spilled coffee around my feet. With a tired sigh, I kneel down and carefully begin to shovel the fragrant grounds back into their now dented tin.

     The fact that I am unaware of you drawing closer must pay tribute to how much of a scatter-brained buffoon I really am. It even takes a moment after heavy black boots enter my downward line of sight that I realize  _ someone _ has approached me, and it takes until your tattooed hands enter my view, brushing the deep brown coffee grounds from the floor to the tin that I realize, oh, dear, it’s  _ you _ . My own hands freeze, my eyes shooting up to meet yours. You are without makeup today, and infinitely more stunning than my limited vocabulary could ever describe, nor could my mind’s eye ever replicate. I am ashamed I ever tried to reconstruct your heavenly countenance in my head. I could never do you justice.

     And then you smile at me, and my heart flutters up into my throat, ready to fly from my mouth and into your inked hands. But your smile is fleeting, chased away by concern. I can only imagine my expression at the moment; no wonder you look so worried. Your eyes trail down to my chest, and I immediately look down, fearing I’ve made some ghastly error in my mode of dress. Instead of some massive stain, I find a little crab attempting to crawl out of my chest pocket.

     My gaze shoots back up to yours. I could say absolutely anything in this moment. Some witty remark about my newfound friend. Some anecdote about how I had once found a crab asleep in my hair after taking a nap on the shore. As a matter of fact, I could say something beyond the crab. I could confess to you the effect you have on me. I could tell you how much I already adore you, you stranger whom I know next to nothing about yet wish to spend all my time with. I could ask you out on a date--that was still something that went on, didn’t it? Things couldn’t have changed so much since my college days, could they have? At the very least, I could greet you, bow my head in greeting, do something. Anything to change the course of our relationship as it stands now, which is little more than acquaintance.

     All I can manage is, “There was a crab in my pocket.”

     You smile at me once more, with a nod, and I am absolutely shocked to find no patronization in the expression whatsoever. Your hand touches mine on the floor, and warmth spreads up my arm as though I had dunked it in hot magma. I find I like the way it burns. I cannot comprehend anything beyond the way it burns until you remove your hand and sweep the last of the coffee into its tin.

     I swallow hard and allow you to replace the cap on the tin and grasp it in one arm. You stand, hand held out once more to help me up off the floor. After just a moment’s hesitation, I reach up and grasp your hand, to find that it is certainly as warm as I’d thought it was, callused in some places and velvety soft in others. You pull me up and I stumble forward, grabbing on to the nearest shelf to steady myself before I can fall to your chest.

     Before I can even thank you for your assistance, you grab a fresh tin of coffee from the shelf and hand it to me, then head back to Pierre’s checkout. I watch, silent, as you purchase several seeds and pay for two tins of coffee. Pierre looks a little disgruntled about your act of kindness, somehow taking offense in it, but you seem unaffected. As you turn from the counter and walk back to the exit, our eyes meet.

     You smile again, and I smile back with every bit of my soul.


	4. 3 Spring, Year 1

     The scents of honey and coconut fill my lungs when I wake up the next morning, and I am suddenly very much aware of the warm body pressed firmly against mine. There’s gentle breath on my neck, accompanied by the faint scent of minty toothpaste. With a faint grunt of confusion, I open my still so tired eyes to find a head of golden curls pushed directly up under my nose, and it all comes rushing back to me: I spent the night at Haley’s and we had fallen asleep together. I distinctly remember laying down much farther from her than I am now, but she’s told me many times that I’m a cuddler. This, I doubt massively.

     Haley snuggles closer to me, quiet snores sounding out from her sunburnt nose and thin hands gripping at the front of my shirt. Carefully, I look down at her and realize that she is not, in fact, grabbing  _ my _ shirt; actually, I’m wearing one of hers, and thus she’s merely grabbing the shirt I’m wearing. A minor technicality, really. It’s one she’d bought purposefully large so that it would hang stylishly off her shoulder, but it fits my larger frame just right. I find immediately that I don’t mind wearing a soft top with “Femme” scrawled across it in metallic gold lettering. I decide comfort is worth more than any feeble protests my already so-so masculinity can offer.

     With the greatest of caution, I slowly untangle myself from Haley’s grip, leaving my hand under her cheek so I can lower her head down onto the pillow. She does not awaken, and I do not expect she will within the next few hours. Haley could sleep through anything but a sale on the Sephora website. 

     I take a moment to look down at her, face smashed up against her pillow in a way that brings to mind what Sleeping Beauty must really have looked like, lying unconscious under her curse. Haley’s cheek is still childishly round, a fact that she tries desperately to hide with contouring makeup every morning. I find it endearing, and I love her perhaps more than most friends would, but I’ll never find the words to tell her so. Even someone with my expanded vocabulary and linguistic skills cannot put certain emotions into words. The closest idea that comes to mind is platonic soulmates, but even that does not quite capture the quiet intimacy.

     My fingers brush against the gentle rise of her cheekbone, over faded freckles and blushing flesh, and I am reminded briefly of the day I met her. The chills still race up my spine as I recall her in that moment, lit up ethereally by the moonlight like some sort of weeping fairy in a Shakespearean comedy gone wrong.

     She’d stood at the edge of the shore on a chilly night in autumn, the same dark night I’d come to the valley I now call home. She had been wearing a soft pink silk gown that fell over her like it had been made for her. I knew now, of course, that it had been; instead of opting for some high-class ball gown from a boutique in Paris, she’d allowed her sister to create a dress for her that looked absolutely incredible, even compared to her usual fabulous wardrobe. Her shoulders had shaken harshly, head bowed toward the ever-reaching embrace of the tide. The crown of her hair stuck up in odd ways.

     I’d quietly approached her from behind to come to a stop by her side, silent and with hair that hardly grew past the tips of my ears. My scalp and forehead still bore thin, peeling scabs from the last time my hair had been cut, and even in the quicksilver moonlight, they lit up black; in my wavering reflection on the sea’s glass surface, I could see the slices. Briefly, I’d looked at Haley's face to find dried blood caked on her once unmarred forehead, scalp ripped up slightly from her skull. Had I not experienced something similar, had I not grown used to this level of gore inflicted upon one’s head, I would have screamed. She should have been screaming. Instead, she collapsed into the sea, and likely would have been swept away in the riptide had I not hauled her from the stinking seawater.

     That was also the night I met Harvey, but he’d looked far less memorable in frumpled pajamas and crooked eyeglasses when we’d knocked on his door at one in the morning so he could stitch up Haley’s scalp. No one spoke until Harvey was in the middle of pulling a surgical thread through Haley’s numb skin, and even then, it was just minor, quiet introductions, brought on by courtesy still moving through our muddled, nebulous minds. I still remember the peculiar intimacy of holding a near-stranger’s hand under the heated spotlight from a doctor’s headlamp. 

     The light of Harvey’s lamp had outlined her profile in white-gold, her hair glowing like a halo despite the bloody clumps near her roots. Yes, perhaps in that moment, in the warmth of the orblike headlamp and the darkness coating all else, I could have easily fallen in love. This was the moment where I first realized perhaps I was not in the area of the spectrum I thought I was when it came to physical attraction. I could find beauty, but no desire, in any woman, if I could find no desire in someone like Haley.

     Haley never flinched, not once. Her hand had nearly broken mine, however, and I was soon to learn that she was much stronger than she looked.

     Haley’s numbing shock wore off as Harvey and I helped her home, but she didn’t say anything until Emily opened the front door to the home that now seems as familiar as my own.

     “Winning homecoming queen was totally not worth it,” she had rasped in my vague direction before grabbing tightly on to her sister. She had to reach around blindly into the darkness of the home to do so; I recall this only because from that night onward, I never saw the light in their living room turn off. The warm golden glow that always emanated from their home is now so inextricably attached to every thought of Haley that picturing the home without it is nightmarish, sending shivers down my spine. Or perhaps I am merely chilly. My borrowed shirt is hardly of any substantial fabric.

     On that night, Emily thanked Harvey and slammed the door directly in our faces. Harvey and I had merely shared a glance before parting ways.

     Haley shifts under the feather-light caress of my fingertips and I immediately draw my hand away, fearing I’ll wake her. My reminiscence ends, replaced by the fear of disturbing my best friend’s beauty sleep. She would likely kill me, should I wake her up. 

     Quite suddenly, I am faced with the realization that I really have no desire to die this morning. Of course, throughout much of my life, there’s been that morbid wish to experience true oblivion--I’m sure that sort of thing naturally comes from being an artist in the environment I grew up in. But as I turn from Haley’s bed to face the rest of her bedroom, I come to terms with the fact that I truly have things to live for now. Before, I had my book, yes. I had Haley. To a certain extent, I had Willy. But nothing had ever had the staying power to fully banish those dark thoughts; my relationships were doubtful to change, and I had no real hopes of finishing my manuscript. But now I had something to pursue. Something to focus on. You. 

     Yes, I know it’s unhealthy to place all of myself in the care of another human being. We are but clumsy sacks of meat riddled with the curse called emotions. Yet here I am, basing half of every thought on the existence of you, a man I’ve met one singular time, and not feeling guilty about it at all.

     However, I know that if I am to function as a proper human, I must focus elsewhere. I shake my head quickly as if to dislodge all thoughts of you, then quietly make my way out of the bedroom. 

     The kitchen is silent and dim when I enter it, seeing as both sisters are still asleep in their beds, and I make haste to the refrigerator in search of breakfast ingredients. I can’t cook much besides seafood and the occasional simple breakfast, and even those select few dishes often turn out inedible. Haley and Emily always seem to enjoy my cooking, however, and I suppose that since I have yet to accidentally poison them, it’s my duty to cook breakfast while the sisters slumber.

     It does not take long before the mouth-watering scents of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon fill the air, and I feel the momentary satisfaction that comes with not burning everything I come in contact with. Behind me, a door creaks open and Emily shuffles out of her room, hair in a tangled cloud of blue and jaw dropped in a massive yawn. I smile just at the sight of her; we’ve spent many late nights together at the saloon, and our shared caring for Haley bonds us even further. “Good morning, Emily.”

     “Morning, Elliott,” she says in response, heading directly to the refrigerator for the carton of almond milk. I continue cooking until the bacon is finished, then I head over to the table to place it on plates. Emily approaches with the milk and three glasses and we begin to work around each other until the unexpected grabs hold of our gazes. Just as Haley leaves her bedroom,  _ you _ , of all people, enter the house. As though you control the atmosphere, the air warms to your presence, changing to fit you. Or perhaps the heat is all my own, my body’s natural response to your appearance. My free hand comes up to touch my cheek, and sure enough, there is a massive change in temperature on the surface of my face; I can only imagine what shade of red I must be.

     Haley doesn’t even pause at what she would consider your intrusion. Instead, she yawns prettily and enters the kitchen, speaking through her yawn to say, “Morning…” She wears no makeup yet, her face bare and pale from sleep as she wanders over to the refrigerator for her usual morning bottle of water. As if a god, a stranger, had not stumbled into her house with filthy boots and a tired expression. 

     You cross the living room to enter the kitchen, still ignored by the sisters that currently ignored everything but their breakfasts. I’ve never seen them act like this before, actually. A near-stranger entering their home would certainly be cause for shock, interrogation, something other than plucking a cupcake from the fridge and coming to stand beside me. But you enter the kitchen unbothered and approach Haley, who has moved to my side at the table and doesn’t even look up from the cupcake I so lovingly frosted the night before. Her lovely golden head doesn’t lift until you place a hand on her shoulder.

     “Ugh,” she begins, rolling her eyes dramatically and peeling the paper cup off her cupcake. “I wish someone would bring me a peppermint coffee.” 

     Your eyes light up as though that’s something feasible in this isolated little village, and you look like you’re attempting to ask where to find the nearest Starbucks, but then your hand returns to your throat and you frown. The expression sends pain like an arrow straight to my heart, and my hand automatically reaches out for yours. My hand brushes against Haley’s bosom before I realize I’m reaching out for you, though, and I yank it back. Haley doesn’t seem to notice. Shame colors my face.

     “Don’t even bother,” Haley says to you, and I am brought back to Earth. Her voice is as bratty as can be, the same tone that usually signals that she’s about to break--either through anger or sadness--and I have to wonder why she’s gone to such an extreme so quickly. “I know you won’t be able to make one.” She shakes her head and takes a huge bite of her cupcake, seeming to have forgotten all about you in the split second since she last looked at you. This is normal Haley behavior, though; if she doesn’t care greatly about you, you don’t have much of a place in her mind.

     She says nothing else while you’re here, even when you undoubtedly brush against her derriere to pass behind her. And,  _ oh _ . You pause before me. So tall, so broad, so beautiful your surroundings look abandoned. I back up against the edge of the table and force away several filthy, filthy thoughts about what may happen if we were alone and given this table for our own uses. That sort of thinking led to a life of debauchery, and I have no want to live perversely.

     But with the way your glorious eyes trace over my skin, it’s growing ever harder--that is to say, more difficult--to quell the wave of images rushing through my head. Oh, I am pitiful. A mere look, and I’m weak in the knees. Pathetic! How many hours will I spend thinking like this after you leave? Already, I suspect the day to be filled with tainted imaginings. 

     I must black out for a moment, because suddenly, you hold a tankard of beer out to me. Had you just...pulled it from your satchel? A full mug of Gus’ lovely imported beer, waiting unspilled in your bag, just to give it as a gift. 

     But I cannot waste time in questioning the gift’s origin or logic, not when you smile so openly at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. How had I ever compared them to the sky? The sky is slate in comparison; sunlight is silt until it passes through your gaze. The world shifts beneath me with every minute movement you make, and I realize I’ve been staring at you for a good while, undoubtedly with drool running down my chin. 

     “I-is this for me?” I ask softly, reaching out for the mug without waiting for your response. My fingertips brush yours, and they’re just as warm as I recall them being when we met at Pierre’s. The thought of Pierre himself almost makes me flinch, and I most certainly would have if it weren’t for your soothing presence. My eyes meet yours once more and Pierre is banished from my thoughts. Thoughts themselves are banished from my head. My mentality is left gaping, cavernous, pleading to be filled with thoughts of you. As soon as I wish for this, the desire is met with its own satisfaction--my mind belongs to you alone. 

     You are all I see in this moment, space and time wrapping around us both like folded angel wings. I am safe and protected like this, with your gaze falling from mine and your hand dropping slowly away from our shared touch. Your radiant warmth reaches me just faintly, in waves, rending my soul to curl up like a cat in a beam of sunlight. I’ve never felt so content to just exist near someone--and yet I find I stand unsatisfied. I want more, and I doubtlessly always will. This void within me will always ache to be full, and the only choice I have is to be yours forever if I were to dull the ache of emptiness in my soul. But how to convey this to you? I stand as mute as stone until your eyes reach mine again.

     “Marvelous,” I whisper. The word leaves me almost like a sob, forcefully expelled from my lungs as though I had been punched in the abdomen. The mug trembles in my shaking hand, and I raise it to my lips. Without a word, you nod in goodbye and exit the room, then the house. I say nothing to stop you, despite the strong desire to chase and capture you to hold in my arms forever. Alas, it seems that today, it is not meant to be. Perhaps some day soon I will find your hand in mine.


	5. 7 Spring, Year 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: the farm is the wooded farm layout.

A full week into the new year has passed and I simply cannot believe the progress I have not made in luring you into some trap of love. Haley has been more than considerate, nursing me through my deadly lovesickness by way of cupcakes and sleepovers. Were I alone in this minuscule excuse for a town, I likely would have stormed your farm and placed one feral kiss to your angelic mouth days ago. But alas, I have an anchor, and she refuses to let me drift aimlessly in the ocean of my adoration for you.  


“So,” Haley begins as the sun sets outside her bedroom window, illuminating us both in a dazy orange glow. It’s got us both in a bit of a stupor, the warmth of the sun’s blushing farewell kisses, and Haley is trying desperately to get us back to a focused state, but that is difficult at the best of times. Thus, we lay limply together, lulled by Emily’s music as it passes through their shared wall.  


Haley’s hair tickles my cheek as she shifts on top of me to grab hold of something, her phone if I’m not mistaken. After a long moment of her nails clicking on the screen, she breaks the silence once more to continue, “I’m assuming you haven’t gotten any dick yet, so we’ve still got tons of work to do.” Silence and clicking follows once more, and I take advantage of her distracted state to not respond until I’ve gotten my thoughts together. In this warm, cozy environment, with such a striking statement thrown my way, it’s difficult to even form a single thought. Alas, I must, and I do.  


“We’ve barely spoken,” I admit, my hazy mind flowing back over the images I’ve crafted of you in my mind. They are...ridiculously detailed, to say the absolute least. And the absolute least is all I’m willing to say about how you exist in my thoughts; anything more would undoubtedly result in utter mortification.  


With great effort and massive reluctance, I turn my head to better view Haley as she scrolls through some app or another. It takes a moment, but I quickly realize that she’s looking through the application she uses to shop for groceries; neither Pierre’s nor Jojamart is enough for her, even for the simplest goods. I cannot blame her, however. Both are critically lacking when compared to what one would find on the mainland. Even Zuzu City’s selection isn’t incredible, so most of the perishable goods she orders are limited anyway, just less so than if she walked across town to Jojamart. Alas, that is the price we pay for the peace and quiet of living in our infinitesimal speck of a village. Quality conditioner was a price I was willing to pay to get away from home.  


Of course, I try not to call that place home any longer; I often wonder why I dubbed it as such in the first place. Instead of the warmth of my mother’s bosom, or the joy of a cupboard I fancied to be a magical kingdom, what I remembered of my family’s manor was naught but cold wood and even colder people. As a matter of fact, I find I do not recall ever receiving a single embrace in those cavernous halls, barring a few surreptitious hugs from whatever young gentleman I cared for that week. And oh, had I cared for them--or, at least, I cared for the contact they could provide.  


Never before had I felt so adored as I had that very first time a boy looked me in the eye and told me he cared for me. Secreted away in a hall long forgotten by my parents, the beautiful son of my father’s friend had stood before me, with a smile that now seemed thin-lipped in comparison to yours. As a matter of fact, everything about that boy paled in comparison to you, my love.  


Soft brown waves, once seeming as if they were carved from heavenly mahogany, now in color matched the greyed motes of dust dancing between us in the golden summer sunlight. The previously endearing mole on his upper lip now became a speck of filth; umber eyes now seeming the same, piggish and boring. Where his height and build had once seemed graceful and sure, in front of me hulked an oaf, an ogre, a troll, as bland and lumpy as grey potatoes in an unfinished clay bowl.  


His hand on my cheek had before felt featherlight, pianist’s fingers, long and delicate and skilled in ways I had yet to learn, but in this moment, it was if he had bashed me over the head. Really, it was! Your touch, the only one I believe I could ever bear to feel again, is pure delicacy compared to the brash blow of that boy.  


I had been due my first kiss that day, lost at fourteen to the lips of a boy three years my senior. Oh, how overjoyed I had been. Someone wanted me. Someone cared for me. Enough to jeopardize our positions with both of our fathers by revealing our true desires, each for another male. It was marvelously brave, unbelievably thrilling, the kind of attention I had only ever received in dreams. In the moment of that one kiss, though I was unsure of how I felt about whether or not I fully desired to love within my own gender, I was entirely sure that every particle of my mind, body, and soul belonged to that dear, careful boy who just happened to be as lonely as I was.  


That had been our last meaningful contact, as soon after our brief moment of affection, he’d been shipped off to a camp somewhere in the countryside. When I’d asked mother about it, she’d merely told me as much before dismissing me.  


I dare say I can no longer recall that boy’s name. He is nothing now, when you rest in my psyche, blocking out all previous loves.  


Haley shifts beside me, stirring me from my reminiscence, asks, “So...what are you going to do about it, then?” She looks up from her phone, over her shoulder, to look back at me. There’s a pink line on her cheek from where she’d rested her head on the hem of my pants for too long, and I stare at it for a bit too long before actively struggling to remember what she may be speaking of. And when I do remember, it’s difficult to resist curling up in my little personal shell and refusing to answer her, but somehow, against all odds, I push through.  


“Well, frankly, my dearest friend,” I begin in the kindest, most loving voice I can imagine. “There are many, many routes that I could possibly take in ascertaining, as you so delicately put it, Lucifer’s, ah, ‘Richard’, and while I would absolutely adore discussing every manageable path available with you, perhaps there are certain things, such as this very wide array of options, that lack any necessity to be discussed in the bold, cleansing light of day.” A beat passed, and I add on quickly, “Also, have you been doing something different with your hair? Or...your skin?”  


Haley glowers at me and throws a candy bar wrapper from the pile on her other side. It flutters harmlessly to my chest, and she looks unsatisfied, and thus begins to pelt me with the remnants of the pile. Like a lazy kitten, I bat a few away and smirk at her.  


“Fine, Haley…” I say with a false, drawn-out sigh. The expelled air disturbs the candy wrappers on my deflating chest, sending them drifting off to the sides and further down. Haley shifts to sit up next to me, legs crisscrossed and arms folded over her own chest. I purposefully wait for a moment, almost quite literally watching the fury alight in her gaze. Once it reaches fever pitch, I continue in a tone that said I truly do not care for whatever inconsequential opinion my best friend may hold, “What can I do to acquire consensual access to the local farmer’s gaying instrument, o wise one?”  


I expect an outright swat to the cheek for such sarcasm, but instead, Haley begins to laugh. Fully cackling, like a crow or a witch. After a moment of this reprehensible behavior, I sit up and frown at her. “I do not take kindly to mockery, young lady.”  


She takes a moment to calm down before saying with mirthful tears in her eyes, “Okay, okay, wait. What do you mean by ‘gaying instrument’? Like...are you saying his dick is different because he’s gay?” Before I can overcome my shock to respond, she continues more to herself, “Wait, is it?” Haley glances back up at me, eyebrows now furrowed ever so slightly. “Wait, you were talking about his dick, right? Not, like, a ukulele or something?”  


I open my mouth to say something, anything--any organization of words to remind her of how she spoke of gays, to explain to her why it is wrong, to tell her what exactly I meant in the least smutty terms possible, but instead, she gasps and covers her mouth as though in horror.  


“Wait, I play the ukulele! Does...does that mean I could be gay?” Her eyes are open wide as she peers at me in shock.  


I truly wonder sometimes how either of us could possibly both have developed a whole brain each. At times I’m sure we were each only given half and that’s why we fell into such an unbreakable friendship against all odds; we need to be together to function. But there are days when I’m quite sure I got certain senses she did not, and today is most certainly one of those days. I sigh and rub my eyes, sitting up. The mattress creaks beneath us both as Haley shifts to grab her phone once more--the sound of her rings clinking against the case alert me to this.  


Before she can take her burning inquiry to the magical know-it-all called Google, I respond as though I am tired, “No, dear. Not at all.” I uncover my eyes to find her looking at me once more, lips screwed to the side as she ponders whether or not she could believe me.  


Finally, after what seems like an eternity passes by us in silence, she shrugs and says, “I mean...you may be totally, like, brain dead when it comes to actual sex and whatever, but...you probably know more about being gay than I do.” She crawls over my legs and off the bed to stretch.  


I exhale slowly and shake my head. “Sure, Haley. Now, why in the name of Yoba are you up, out of this immensely comfortable, ridiculously massive pillow you understatedly call a bed?” Because that is what it is--one massive pillow to sink into. She insists it’s just a nice mattress but I’m not sure I believe her.  


Haley looks back at me over her shoulder, soft skin practically glowing in the mix of dying sunlight and the fairy lights strung over her bed. I am blessed, truly, to have a best friend so distractingly beautiful. Were I to attempt to attract an audience to discuss my book, I would undoubtedly send this lovely girl around to recruit prospective spectators. Who could possibly refuse an invitation from someone so winsome, especially when she looks so convincingly knowledgeable about what we should be doing as she does now.  


I myself often find it impossible, even when the invitation is, “Well, since you've made literally zero contact with the man of your dreams, I think we should just go ahead to the farm and just say hey. Or something.” Haley grins wolfishly in my direction and reaches down to pull me up, off of the so-called bed. Reluctance and dread, of course, weigh me down enough that she simply lacks the strength to rip me away from my comfort, and after mere seconds of struggling, she drops my hand and places it on her hip, expression turning from triumph to the wrathful goddess I fear so much. “Elliott.”  


I wince immediately, much to my immense embarrassment, and force myself out of the warm little hollow I have made for myself in Haley’s bed. “Yes, yes. I suppose you're right,” I consent with my eyes cast down. I know I am pouting childishly at being so rudely shoved from my comfort zone. “We should at least drop in. Say hello. All that entails acting as social beings should.” There are many things I wish to do on your farm, involving you, and I am only willing to admit those two things out loud. I must not let Haley become aware of the strange aches you bring me. They are far too humiliating to let anyone, even the young lady whom I share nearly everything with, be made aware of.  
Haley begins to beam once I give in so easily. “Good. It’s so much easier when you just say yes.” She goes over to her wardrobe to grab a light overcoat and heads out of her bedroom without another word. Briefly, I hesitate, considering whether or not I should actually follow her out or take this opportunity to collapse back into Haley’s bed and rest there until she inevitably drags me, with a tug of my glorious flaming locks, to your doorstep, where I will undoubtedly die of embarrassment once your eyes lay upon me. But then again, what a lovely way to perish.  


Shoulders slumping lowly, I follow my friend out of her house. My nose catches the faint scents of Emily’s incense and I feel a pang of longing for Haley’s floaty older sister. She is usually a breath of fresh, albeit sage-smoked air, especially when compared to her commandeering younger sister. An idea strikes me, and I almost trot to catch up to Haley.  


“What if,” I begin, placing my hand chastely on her elbow to stop her progress, “instead of bothering that poor, overworked farmer, we go have a drink at the saloon? Perhaps he’s even at the saloon instead of the farm anyways. I would most certainly be, were I him.” I cannot deny the faint note of desperation that enters my voice as I rush to convince Haley of your supposedly probable location. Of course, I have no real clue where you may be; the valley is much larger than we all give it credit for.  


Haley swats at my hand, brushing it off of her elbow so she could take it in her own. “Don’t be stupid, Elliott. It’s, like, probably almost harvest time for the first crop. I’d be surprised if he even has time to sleep.” Without another word, she begins to pull me along. In mere seconds, we’ve crossed over from the pavers and dim, flickering street lights of the lovely Pelican Town and onto the lovely Marnie’s ranch.  


The scent of manure hits both Haley and I like a wall, followed expressly by the gentle moos of cattle to our right. In the tarnished-silver night, massive brown eyes follow us as we pass by, shoes scuffing up the newly rejuvenated dirt. Some childish inclination within me begs to approach the sweet-tempered heifers, for a pat on the nose or such, but Haley drives ever onward, unstoppable and incapable of being wavered on her path directly toward the back entrance of your farm.  


Speaking of the back entrance, I said, “Haley, perhaps we should have entered from the traditional entrance.” She does not answer, and I suppose I do not expect her to ever do so. When Haley gets her mind set on something, it’s as though her brain has steel teeth to lock in on whatever she’s set her sights on. It’s often times annoying, but more often endearing. However, tonight, I merely get bored with her tenacity, choosing to dim my mind rather than come to terms with the fact that I will soon be in your brilliant, heart-stopping presence. I don’t think I could walk in a straight line if I thought so constantly about you, with my mind so freshly muddled by the warmth and contentment of earlier, in Haley’s bedroom at sunset.  


In my brief moments of mental wandering, my eyes are drawn upwards, toward the vast sky, where I find the night’s moonlit dewdrops reflected as stars. The heavens could easily be mistaken for a still, black sea, and I find the similarity disorienting. Until I realize that I am indeed looking down at some body of water, one that I have no recollection of ever approaching. The black water is stone-still, polished obsidian flecked with shimmering points of distant light.  


My breath is raw as it scrapes up and down my throat, tasting like iron and feeling like fire, and I’m sure that if I tried to cough up whatever bits of...something in my throat, I would expel a spray of blood, just as black as the frozen pitch before me, into the freezing night air.  


Sense returns to me for long enough to register that seeing as it is in fact spring, in a valley where each season is very distinctly separate from the one preceding it, my surroundings should not shine with a frosty sheen. My fingertips feel as though I’ve left them encased in ice for hours, and what horrifies me the most is their grotesque coloring. From tip to first knuckle, they are as black as ink. From first knuckle down, the darkness fades gradually back to my normal skin tone.  


Worrisome, to be sure. But only one problem in a vast array of such, and though some sense has returned, numbness still cradles me, away from my growing sense that something is terribly wrong.  


My toes rest at the very edge of the water and I realize I lack proper footwear to get wet when the water is ice-glossy frigid. A moment later, I notice one of my legs is now bare; where the leg of my pants had once struck down to cover my pale flesh, now the flesh lay bare to the harsh cold. There, contrasted garishly against the milky white of my skin, more inky blackness drips like molasses.  


More, on my shirt. My hands--how had I not noticed the smears, oil on paper, ink on snow? Is this what stains my fingertips? Where, where does it flow from?  
An ache seizes my head, one far too familiar, an ache that blends quickly into the sharp sting of a laceration. No, not a cut, a tear, lifting my scalp from my skull. Far too familiar, yet I find myself separated from the usually unbearable pain and the liquid heat dripping down my forehead and clumping in my hair. What’s left of my hair, at least.  


At my feet, as though I am looking in an obsidian mirror, I can see myself now, against a backdrop of a million stars. Where has the moon gone? Where has my hair gone? Where have my eyes gone? I peer directly into my own eye sockets. Darkness there, and nothing more. No more blood, no more flesh. Empty pits of bone with no soul glares back at me, flashing dappled grey under the overbearing branches of the pitch black canopy now sheltering me. What have I become? What made me this way? I turn to face the woods behind me, hoping to find some semblance of a familiar form.  


A scream echoes out in the night, female, disturbingly familiar, piercing through the blackness and rattling around inside my empty skull like a bullet ricocheting without end. Fear strikes down to the core of my hollow rib cage like a bolt of lightning and I stumble backward, away from the source of the shriek, allowing the animalistic terror to overtake me for a moment before I am submerged in the icy depths of the lake I had moments ago stared into. The world that I should see above the surface of the water is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're enjoying this, please leave a comment or kudos or something to let me know. really, it makes my day. I live for validation haha. thank you for reading this far. more horror to come. this is merely the beginning


	6. 8 Spring, Year 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w for rape discussion. no actual act, just harvey being concerned.

Tomorrow morning comes with a whimper and the color of faintly milky coffee. Soft brown eyes stare inquisitively down at me, though not yet meeting my gaze. They shift to look at what seems to be the blurry form of a clipboard. The quiet but familiar sound of a pen scraping against paper reaches my ears, sending an ache to spasm out across my temples like the ripples of a stone thrown violently into a pond.

Oh, dear Yoba, what had become of me? A night spent ravaging my fragile human body at the saloon? The pounding in my skull brings to mind days woken up with the same pain; a hangover, those which affect me more harshly than they do most, what with my usually rather fragile constitution. At least, it’s fragile after drinking my weight in ale.

This flow of thought merely aggravates my aching skull and I grit my teeth, now focusing with all my mental power on overcoming the flashes of light and shadow marring my sight. But even through the feather-light orbs, I could see my darling friend Harvey, eyes trained on the spot where my heart beats unevenly in my chest. A cold rush of air alerts me to the fact that I am, indeed, in a very immodest position, with several tape-like objects stuck to the white flesh of my abdomen and wires protruding from each fastened square. I think perhaps they are monitoring my heartbeat, as Harvey seems to be doing on his own at the moment. As I watch, he scribbles a number or such down on his clipboard with a studious nod, as though he is merely a student in a lecture hall, not a man with a town full of lives in his hands.

"Hello," I force out of my lungs. They ache in response as though they stir now from slumber for this sudden usage, and it occurs to me to be concerned as to how much damage I had incurred during whatever had gone down during the night. Whatever had happened to cast me awash in a morning sea of confusion on pain, moored on a glorified gurney, had obviously mistreated me so that I am in such a state to be hospitalized. The aches and pains prove such a hypothesis.

Of course, there's no response from my beloved physician friend, but then again, he often can be caught dreaming at the best of times. I have no desire to blame him for this, either; the youth--though I use this phrase liberally with him at this point in his life--of Pelican Town are almost universally a group of people with dreams.

Harvey continues to scribble away furiously at the paper clipped to his board, and my crusty eyes turn back to the ceiling as I wait for my lungs to once more tolerate more than the shallowest of breaths. Patterns make their way to my gaze, new constellations in the pores of the ceiling panels. The thought of stars reminds me of Haley, and my dulled mind wanders briefly to question the presence or absence of my friend. If she is here, what condition does she lay in? If she is not here, then why not? Whatever had happened last night, and I have no clue what that might be, had she suffered some fate so horrible as to not have made it to the hospital? Or was she in such a fine state that she had been simply allowed to go home?

This thought troubled my broken mind the most. Had Haley survived whatever had happened in good enough health to be let go, wouldn't she be at my bedside, worried for me? Waiting for me to wake up? I certainly would do the same for her. My heart gives a twinge of pain at the thought, and I turn my head weakly once more to survey the room. Perhaps she is just in a bed somewhere else, hanging on to dear life.

But with this head-turning comes returned focus on Harvey, and I ready myself to speak once more to him.

“Hello, Harvey.”

Harvey instantly becomes a blur of half-finished thoughts and quarter-finished gestures, jerking first downward to grab his fallen clipboard. “Sure glad that wasn’t my mug--oh, Elliott!” Partially through his journey to the floor, he jolts back upright and reaches out toward, me, eyes wide and mouth hanging halfway open. “You’re alive! Awake! Come here!”

“Hello, Harvey,” I rasp once more, voice weak around the sour taste coating my tongue, and Harvey’s directive changes, from pulling me into a relieved embrace to checking on the amount of fluid in my drip bag. He takes the measurement quickly and goes to scribble it down on his clipboard, except the clipboard is still on the floor, and he leans down to pick it up just as Maru comes over, looking exhausted.

“I’ve got Elliott, Doc,” she says, smiling warmly down at him. Harvey looks up, head at the level of my cot, cheeks red and eyes wide behind his glasses. For a moment, I’m not sure he’s okay to stand up and waddle over to where I now assume Haley lay bundled up under several thin blankets and hooked up to a wide array of machines and tubes and whatnot. But finally, after a moment of standing dumbly before his assistant, he nods and rushes off to the bed on the far side of the clinic's 'emergency room'. Sure enough, he pulls back the blanket to reveal a scrap of blonde hair poking out of the folds of fabric.

This is all I can see before a bright light beams glaringly into my left eye. I instinctively flinch away from the harsh glow, my eyes squeezing shut, before Maru speaks again, gently.

“Come on, Elliott. I have to do these tests,” she says. Through my eyelids, I can tell the light has turned off, so I open my eyes once more despite my misgivings and the starbursts of temporary blindness now staining my sight. She continues, “Unless you'd prefer Harvey to do them...” Of course, humor tinges her tone—for as brilliant as our shared friend is, he can get distracted and make certain things, like vital tests, take twice as long as necessary.

I almost decide not to respond, but Maru starts talking again before I can speak up. “Do you need some water? Your throat must be thrashed.” She goes quickly to the water cooler at the corner of the room and returns with a small plastic cup full of cool water. I down it in mere seconds, feeling strength flow back into my core as my poor throat is soothed.

“Alright, alright,” I mumble as Maru throws my cup away. “Go ahead. Do as you must.” I then hold myself as still as possible while I am submitted to a number of minor tests. Pulse, focus, memory, that sort of thing. All in order, save for memory—though I have no trouble recalling who is the mayor and what season it is, I can not, for the life of me, remember anything after Haley and I curling up in bed together to relax and cuddle.

Maru pulls back when I admit this, her full lips turning down in a frown and youthful skin wrinkling with worry. “Really? None of last night, at all?”

I shake my head rather helplessly, hands coming up in a bit of a shrug. “No. I apologize, but my mind is blank.” As I speak, Harvey leaves Haley's bedside and trudges over to stand next to Maru, his fists on his hips as he looks down at me, perplexed. One hand comes up to fiddle with the left curl of his handlebar mustache.

“Well, Elliott, that's hardly something any doctor wants to hear,” he begins cautiously, as though he's thinking over everything at the same time he speaks. Sure enough, his eyes are unfocused behind his glasses; he's considering diagnoses, treatments, condolences, all at once. Finally, he nods to himself and proceeds, “But a loss of memory can often be an easily treatable condition, and Haley might remember it all when she wakes up. If only we could discover the root of it, then...” He fades off—Maru has placed her hand on his upper arm.

The young girl says, “Maybe it has something to do with that unknown sample we took.” Maru sounds eager to solve the problem. Light flashes in her dark eyes, a spark of excitement. For someone so intelligent and heavily invested in analysis and observation, she is remarkably blind to Harvey's ridiculously obvious affection for her. Though, of course, the doctor vehemently denies his infatuation at every possible turn. Perhaps the denial has worked on Maru, but for no one else.

Harvey stands now blushing and quivering in place, his mouth open as he tries to speak but cannot find the focus to be able to do so. He rushes to yank his glasses off and wipe the fog from the lenses before managing to nod and stutter out, “A-absolutely, Maru. You're on the right track. Maybe you should go call your father and ask him how the tests are going.”

The nurse nods dutifully and walks away, down the hall, to the front desk. From this distance, it's unlikely that she hears me when I whisper, “What sample, Harvey? I trust my bodily fluids all remain just that: bodily.”

Harvey nods in a hesitant manner, wringing his hands the whole while. “Yes, yes, of course. We don't think...whatever the fluid was belonged to you in the first place.” He grabs his rolling chair and pulls it over so he can sit down next to my cot, leaning far forward. His legs are spread and his elbows rest on his knees, fingers interlocked. “Unless, you know, you stumbled into a vat of tar or bathed in molasses.” He glances over at Haley's unconscious form, then back at me. “Though I wouldn't doubt Haley would dare you to do something like that,” he half-jokes, before his expression switches to concern and he asks, “She wouldn't, would she?”

I shake my head, managing a small smile. “No.” She most definitely would do something like that, if the dare struck her fancy. She's dared me to do worse. Skinny dipping in the bathhouse (before the landslide closed it off) still sends shivers down my spine whenever I think about it. I can not even to begin to (nor do I have any desire to) imagine what diseases may lurk in that steaming, unclean water.

Harvey laughs with an edge of discomfort and runs his hand over his hair, shifting to lean back in his chair. “Good. Good. I worry what either of those would do to your health.” He laughs again, sounding even more forced than before as he looks at me. “Yep...molasses.”

I frown at him, wondering what may have gotten into him. Conversation with Harvey is hardly ever smooth; as sweet as he is, our town doctor has no way with verbal interaction. But this is different. My dear friend seems to be bothered by something. So, I ask as gently as my ragged voice will allow, “What is it, Harvey? What's the matter with you?” I can only hope it was Maru's earlier brief interaction that troubles him so. Any other outcome brings fearful imaginings to the forefront of my mind.

Harvey clears his throat and remains quiet for a moment, carefully avoiding meeting my curious gaze, before he shifts in his seat and admits quietly, “We have absolutely no clue what the sample is. When the farmer dragged you in here early this morning, you and Haley were soaked from stem to stern in...something.” Mild disgust contorts his features. “It was gooey, and black, and smelled like...” He glances up at me, then back away before finishing, “like decomposition. A rotting corpse. Maru and I had a hell of a time getting you two clean. Especially yours and Haley's hair.” He shoots me a look of incredulity. “How do you two manage having so much hair? It took three hours, each, to get all that gunk out.”

I shrug, then regret the motion. “It's how we choose to live...” And then it strikes me. Who had he said brought us in? I feel the color drain from my face—pale as it already is—and I carefully reach up to cover my face with a low groan. “You say the farmer brought us in?”

“Yes. He seemed very concerned about your well-being. At least, that's what he wrote down.” Suddenly, I hear him jump up from his seat, the chair shooting backward across the tiles. I peek out at him just as he begins to hurry over to a stack of files on the countertop nearby. “Here, yeah.” He pulls out a specific file from a mess I would never be able to understand and brings it over to his chair, where he sits down once more and opens the file to read, “'I thought I heard screaming last night. I found these two on my farm this morning. Neither of them were breathing very well. I think they fell into a pond?'” He hands me the file, which I take with a shaking hand.

Your handwriting. It's exquisite, curling and dancing across the page as though you stumbled freshly from a calligraphy class and into the doctor's office. It's as though you wrote with an angel-feather quill, each letter simply divine. Such penmanship gives me chills. I read what Harvey read moments before, and find I cannot remember even visiting your farm. Despite how much my mind desperately tries to evoke an image of swaggering onto your farm with every intention of requesting a date with you, there is no trace of your farm to be found, save for every time I visited before you descended upon us, my sweet seraph, my saving grace.

Reluctantly, I pass your note back to Harvey for replacement into its file. A sigh leaves me, heavy and melodramatic, before I speak once more. “Do you have any clue what was wrong with us? What's wrong with Haley?” I carefully turn my head to peer over his shoulder, to where Haley still lay helpless and floating through the ether.

Harvey looks back as well, eyes narrowing as he tries to read the outdated heart monitor by her bed. “Maru and I are still trying to figure out what might've caused you both to black out. She thinks Haley might be malnourished or something, but I don't really think that could be a factor. Her BMI is almost to a healthy level again and I know you wouldn't let her get back to...” He shifts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, eyes dropping. “...you know. But you, however, I'm a little worried about.” Harvey shifts to a different pose as he sits, a more paternal pose. He shoots me a concerned, therapist-like look and asks gently, “How have you been eating, Elliott?”

I scoff at the mere insinuation that my eating habits are anything to be worried about. “Just fine, thank you.” I can not help the bit of sarcasm flowing into my tone. Hours spent with Haley may have undesirable effects on one's speech patterns. “Haley makes me eat when she eats.” Of course, considering Haley's past struggles, I feel the need to add, “Which is far more often than one might think, Harvey.”

Harvey raises his hands, as if in surrender, before stating, “Alright, Elliott. I was just worried. You know I worry about you two.” And yes, he does. I know he worries, far more than he should. But that's just who our dear doctor is; he's a caretaker, one who loves all and treats each of us as though we are fragile and must be protected at all costs. It's quite nice to be cared so deeply for, but at times it can become stifling, even infuriating. Of course, I usually manage to remain far more understanding than I seem now. Harvey can not help how much love he has to give, and we should all be grateful to be watched over so attentively. Pelican Town could be much worse off.

The doctor continues, “I worry about you day and night, and I know you know it. But this is different. If you're both eating well enough, and haven't engaged in any behaviors that might lead to, you know, blacking out, then...I have to wonder...” His lips purse and he looks almost guiltily to the side. “I really, really hate to imply anything, but...what if it was the farmer?” Before I can offer any protests, he glances up at me and quickly adds, “Hear me out, Elliott. I've been thinking.”

I can almost physically see a shift in him: from anxious, tenderhearted town doctor to a man who had to slice open a cadaver and identify each dead organ in order to gain the certificate allowing him to actually be the town doctor. I can tell he's been thinking about this all day, turning over facts and observations to reach whatever conclusion he's about to explain. He really, truly is a brilliant man. It's a shame his mind didn't agree.

“Well,” he begins, mulling over his next few words. “He...supposedly...came here after working for JojaCorp for years. And what easier lie to tell than an incredibly probable one, you know, one almost impossible to disprove? We could probably look through Joja's files forever and not find him, they're such a megacorporation. Whatever happened back wherever he's from, he's running from it.” Harvey shifts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and peers at me through the thick lenses. “What if whatever he's running from is similar to what happened last night? What if...what if he knocked you out, maybe meant to kill you two. Or worse, oh god—I mean, Yoba. What if he...” He looks back at Haley, skin going ashy as he begins to think out loud. “Should I do a rape kit? I should've done that already. I'm so stupid.” His hands then come up to his face. “I don't even have the supplies for that!” He curses once, twice, as he gets up and rushes to his medical cabinet.

I sigh at my friend's paranoia and panic, but I can appreciate that he cares. Still, I caution him. “Harvey, I find it dubious that anything of the sort came about. Settle yourself and really evaluate the situation. If you bathed me and Haley to rid us of whatever filth clung to us, then, hypothetically, wouldn't most of any evidence already be washed away?” I shift in my cot in an endeavor at sitting upright, and this time, I manage it despite my body's protests. “Besides, Lewis probably has access to any sort of document concerning Lucifer's past. He wouldn't let anyone threatening into the town.”

Harvey seems to listen to this, as he should; Lewis is notorious for 'protecting the interests of Pelican Town'. The man is downright neurotic about the state of the town, even, and everyone knows it.

Sighing, Harvey returns to his seat, sitting down with enough weight that he spins around once before planting his feet on the floor. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I know. You're right. I'm just...I'm kind of at a loss, Elliott. Really.” He gives me a pleading look. “But, um, don't tell Maru that, of course.”

“Don't tell Maru what?” says a voice, rough from disuse, in the doorway of the room Harvey and I currently inhabit. We glance up at the same time to find none other than Sebastian, that pale youth who haunts the mountains north of town.

Clad entirely in black, he hardly seems to stand above five feet tall. But given his massive slouch, seeming inability to straighten out his shoulders, and constantly ducked head, he is likely a good bit taller than I suspect. He stands now with one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie and the other clutching both a leaf of paper and a vial of a dark substance. He holds the vial between his forefinger and his middle finger like a cigarette, the paper between the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

Harvey practically flies from his seat. “Don't tell her nothing! I mean, anything! I mean, there's nothing we're hiding. I mean...” He takes a deep breath, considers his words, and speaks slowly now. “Elliott and I aren't hiding anything.”

I feel the need to interject at this point, to soothe Sebastian's notions on any harmful goings-on, but for once am left speechless. Sebastian eyes us both suspiciously from underneath that mass of pitch black hair hanging over half his face, then shrugs and shakes his head, brushing said clump of hair off his forehead. It falls right back into place.

“Whatever. I brought your stupid sample,” he mutters, shuffling over to Harvey and holding the vial and paper out. Harvey takes them both excitedly as Sebastian begins to speak once more. “Demetrius said that paper has all his results, but...I heard him in his lab, and something tells me there aren't actually any answers.” He brushes the hair from his eyes once again. “He has literally no clue what that stuff is. Whatever it is.”

The dark youth seems to hesitate for a moment, as if wondering if he should say more, before shrugging and shoving his now empty hand into the other side of his hoodie's overstuffed pocket. A pack of cigarettes peeks out from between his wrist and the pocket, the plastic of it shimmering, unopened as of yet. “Whatever,” he grumbles. “Good luck figuring it out. And keeping whatever secret from Maru. She'll figure it out eventually.”

He turns to leave just as Harvey asks, “Now that you're here, Sebastian, how have you been? Everything...going okay? With you?” He shifts from foot to foot, forehead lined with concern, and I almost flinch just at how much Harvey cares about us. Perhaps too much. Far, far too much for Sebastian's taste, it seems, because the young man tenses up so much, it almost straightens out his shoulders. I can almost spy the discomfort coming off him in waves as he nods a second too late to be convincing. It makes me wonder what's so wrong with him in the first place, that it would drive Harvey to inquire about his health at such a time as this.

“Oh, um, yeah. I'm...fine.” He glances back at Harvey, eyes slipping over me for an instant. “Totally fine, actually. So, uh, don't bother worrying about me? I guess?” Sebastian sounds about as convincing as Harvey had a moment earlier, when he'd tried to convince the youth that he and I were not keeping any sort of secret from his half-sister. He must know this, because his pasty cheeks flare up in a brilliant crimson and he rushes out, nearly knocking Maru herself over in his rush to get away from Harvey's objectively smothering care.

Maru glances back at Sebastian as the young man left, then looks back at us and enters the room. “What was up with him?” She absently rubs the arm he bumped into as she speaks. “I haven't seen him move that fast in...ever, actually.”

Harvey straightens his tie out and replies, “Oh, nothing. He's just shy about keeping healthy, I think. Nothing you need to worry about!” He absolutely beams at the girl before him, an absolutely boundless well of adoration shining in his gaze, and as I have many times before, I can't help but wonder why Harvey isn't already married. He'd passed his thirty-sixth birthday this past winter, and with such a vast supply of love and teddy bear-ish looks, how could anyone not care for him in an instant?

I suppose Harvey himself may be to blame for his own lack of companionship. The poor fool often trips up before he can reach the starting line, be it in a minor conversation or a request for partnership at the upcoming flower dance. To me, however, that makes him all the more endearing. I make a note to ask him to dance at the festival when it comes; the poor fool ought not to be left alone to his crushing thoughts.

Maru slowly nods, and evidently, she decides that it's not worth bothering to question. “Alright. What do those notes say? Dad went on and on about his investigation but conveniently didn't mention the results.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and approaches Harvey, taking the paperwork when he holds it out to her with a trembling hand. It takes her mere seconds to skim the contents of her father's test results, shaking her head in disbelief as she reaches the bottom.

“Nothing? Really?” She glances up at Harvey, and something unspoken passes between the two of them before they both look over at me, discomfort mirrored in both of their expressions. These are two people who aren't often left unable to understand something, and it disturbs them both that they should be left in the dark despite the collective knowledge available to them. I can't say I blame them for how they feel.

A silence holds us all for a moment, the malaise spreading through the air before a soft groan alerts us to the fact that Haley is stirring from her deep slumber. Under her heavy blanket, she twists and groans once more, then shoots upright faster than she should have been able to, what with all the tubes and wires tangled around her.

I've seen Haley nervous before. She'd been nervous telling me about her past, nervous whenever Alex got too close, nervous when we stand on anything higher than ground level. Anxiety was always a part of Haley, thrumming lowly under the candy-coated surface and the makeup and the clothes she insisted were designer.

I've seen Haley sick before. When her hair stays in a bun for days on end, and her skin is clammy and pale, and she stays curled up in her bed for days on end. She hardly looks much less than her normal self, though—just a bit paler than usual, missing all her makeup.

Today, I experience something I wish to never experience again.

Haley is terrified. Like a wild animal, she flinches back from the harsh, fluorescent lights—one light, one that's gone out right above her cot, in particular. Her skin has gone pale and her eyes are blown impossibly wide. Her lips are white and cracked like the color's been sucked from the skin, and as soon as she's aware breath enters her lungs, she cries out unintelligibly. She's a creature of prey, cornered by the relative darkness above her bed.

Cold rushes through my veins like dread of a memory I haven't experienced quite yet. Surely, this isn't my Haley. This is not the girl who had faced down two separate assaults in one night, that night we met. This is not the girl who could send even the most stubborn bullies packing, the girl who could sway my willpower with a mere look. This simply cannot be the same girl.

Surprisingly, Harvey is the first to react in response to Haley's sudden outburst. In seconds, he rushes to grab some sort of syringe out a cabinet on the wall and sticks it into the bag that leads into Haley's IV. As calm and commanding as can be, he pushes the syringe fluid slowly into the bag and says, “Maru, hold her arms. Make sure her IV is still connected.”

Maru hesitates for a split second before rushing to follow orders, pinning Haley's flailing arms to the cot and ensuring, by sight, that the needle is still firmly implanted in her arm. “Got it, doc,” she affirms, voice tense as she looks up to Harvey, who empties the last of the syringe and tosses it into the trash.

Haley's still kicking her legs out, squirming, sobbing. Pleading—for what, though? Every word she speaks comes out as a wretched cry, a haunting, guttural utterance that sends to every muscle in my body a strong desire to flee. I have to forcefully remind myself: this is Haley. My beloved, darling best friend, she who has made her home more welcoming than even my own. This is Haley; it has to be. Despite the unearthly whiteness of her skin, the azure eyes gone glassy, the knowing tone removed from her voice, I have to remember this really is my best friend, no matter how insistently instinct roars at me to run.

Harvey pins her legs to the mattress, using his hefty weight to his advantage as he presses down on her. Haley fights him for every inch of room she can manage, still heaving with sobs and crying out as if in some other language. But slowly, thank Yoba, the sedative begins to work.

Haley's kicks slow, her squirming shortening to a soft rocking, side to side, sobs turning to whimpers. Finally, she's silent and unmoving, but Harvey keeps her legs down long after she stills. Long after Maru lets Haley's limp arms go.

It gets to the point that Maru, with a trembling hand, reaches out and touches Harvey's shoulder. She asks with a thin, fearful voice, “Doctor? What's wrong?” I haven't spent much time around Maru, just the time shared with Harvey when I come to visit my friend, but I get the feeling she doesn't speak so fearfully often.

Harvey is so eerily silent for a moment, still watching Haley's eyes move frantically under her eyelids, before looking at up at Maru, then at me. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, but some kind of purpose has taken up residence alongside the concern in them. A second later, he nods seemingly to himself and says, “We have to figure out what she saw.”

 


	7. 9 Spring, Year 1

At exactly six A.M. the next morning—I have my eye on the clock as it happens—the power in the clinic flashes out to an eerie dimness with a low sound humming in the background. Through exhausted eyes, I look around at the dim dark surrounding myself, Haley, and Harvey, then reach out quickly to touch Harvey on the shoulder. The startled doctor jerks up from where he sits next to me, having drifted off sometime around three this morning, and looks around in shock before rushing to put his glasses back on and get up out of his seat.  
“Oh, geez,” he says, voice hushed as he bounds over to the light switch on the wall. After a few useless clicks of the switch, he moves to Haley's bedside and peers at the empty screen of her heart monitor, scowling in a way that shows his age throughout his soft cheeks and forehead. He taps the darkened screen, then mumbles something along the lines of, “Yeah, yeah, definitely out. The power...”  
It occurs to me that perhaps our lovely doctor has not fully woken up yet.  
“Is there a generator?” I question in a low rasp, swinging my numb legs over the side of the cot in a shaky attempt at standing up. I'd done so once before, when Harvey had prompted me to use the lavatory and stretch my legs, and it had taken all the support my friend could offer just to stand up. Of course, I have no desire to move around with accompaniment any longer, especially should it involve the restroom, so despite the aches spasming throughout my poor leg muscles, I force myself up and stumble over to Harvey's side.  
“No,” he mumbles, glancing across the room, down the hall. “But there is a flashlight. I'll get it.” He stands up and glances down at Haley, who seems to be perfectly asleep, her limp hand still in mind. “Can you handle watching over her for a minute? I'll bring the flashlight back here then go start the generator up.” He looks back out toward the front windows in the waiting room, where light streams through but doesn't quite reach us.  
I nod and squeeze Haley's hand ever so slightly, murmuring in as gentle a manner as I am able in my nervous state, “Of course, Harvey.” I hesitate, almost inexplicably fearful to break the silence further, before I force myself to add, “See if everyone else is out, while you're out there.” An unfathomable dread strikes me deep into my core; something tells me our clinic is the only building without power, and no explanation could counteract the deep-rooted terror that notion carries.  
Harvey nods and hurries to leave the clinic as fast as his feet can carry him. I watch him go, idly considering the possible causes of the outage, then turn my tired gaze back to Haley's prone form.  
She lay still before me, eyes stuck shut with all the crust of someone who has shed tears in their sleep. The very idea sends a sickly feeling down to my core and I shake my head, looking around in the darkness until I can find a swath of gauze and a small container. I fill the container with water and, with a touch as light as I can manage, I wipe the filth from around Haley's eyes, murmuring, “That's better, isn't it.”  
I am about to draw away so I may empty the container and dispose of the gauze when Haley's hand shoots up from the bed and locks around my wrist. Her grip is far stronger than it has any reason to be; I can feel the bones of my forearm creaking in a sickly manner, and I scarce have time to cry out before Haley's suddenly speaking to me. The voice is so unlike her own that I doubt now that it even came from her. Her lips, so cracked and pale, barely move as she rasps, “Elliott. Elliott, where am I? Elliott, Elliott, Elliott. What is it, Elliott? Elliott, Elliott.”  
“Haley, I—let go! Please!” I try to pull from her iron grip but there's no use. She's holding me with just barely enough mercy to spare my bones from breaking. I have no sense to question where the source of this strength lay, not yet, at least. In this moment, I barely have enough sense to stop pulling, lest I really do cause my arm to break. “Haley!” I uselessly repeat, my voice pleading.  
Haley merely pulls me back down, eyes snapping open in order to stare up at me. Her pupils are dilated so widely, the blue depths of her irises have all but disappeared. “Elliott,” she repeats in a harsh whisper. Shakes begin to overwhelm her ill body, first minor tremors and then full-on quaking, but she still manages to cry out, her voice more like her own, “P-please—“ before she lets me go and curls up on her side in fetal position, shudders still wracking her small frame. Every last one of her muscles seems taut and drawn tight, ready to snap if tensed any further.  
“Please what, my darling?” I coo shakily to her, placing one hand, the one attached to the arm she just bruised, on her forearm. I stroke her arm in an admittedly weak attempt to comfort her. When there is no response, I merely withdraw my touch, continuing, “Haley, please answer me.” There's no response, physical or vocal. “What's wrong?” I ask anyways. “What did you see?” I'm trying to keep myself from pushing her too hard, in case I'm doing more harm than good. Haley doesn't respond for a good while, not until we both can hear Harvey knocking about behind the clinic.  
“I...I don't know,” she says quietly, voice cracking upwards like she's on the brink of tears, or perhaps asking a question. She slowly forces herself to sit up, and I jerk out of my brief stupor in order to assist her. Once she's upright, she continues, her eyes distant, “I think I'm alright now, I just...I need to get home.” She looks up at me, a soft shade of purple weighing heavy under her eyes. The bags seem even worse in the shadows. “Why's it so dark in here?” Her voice rises in panic once more.  
I take her hand and squeeze it as tightly as I dare. “There seems to have been an outage. Harvey's taking care of it as we speak.” I kiss her knuckles. “What can I do for you, dear? Do you need water?” Before she can even respond, I'm up, shuffling through the shadows to fetch her a plastic cup and some water from the sink tap. She doesn't protest, but she doesn't vocally agree, either. As a matter of fact, she just lays back and goes quiet, staring up at the cloud of darkness above us.  
“Alright, alright, open up. You need to get some water in you,” I murmur, pressing the cup gently to her lips. Haley doesn't move much, just opens her mouth ever so slightly. I pour water into her mouth for a moment before she jerks upright, clutching the cup, and downs the whole cup. Immediately, I fetch her another cupful, with the same response.  
After four full cups of water, Haley's eyes widen and she rolls onto her side, grabbing the container I'd used for holding water earlier. She vomits into the container.  
The contents of her stomach are black and sludgy, with the consistency of slime and a glossy shine, the same gunk I assume we had been covered in when you brought us to the clinic. But knowing the mystery muck had been inside of Haley sends me shuddering; who knows what sort of poison that sludge may be? Who knows what havoc it may wreak on my poor, ill best friend, who has already collapsed back on the mattress once more.  
“Haley...?” I say after a moment, reaching out to brush a lock of golden hair from her sticky forehead. “Are you okay?” My voice seems stronger now.  
Haley merely groans and covers her face for a moment before saying, “Don't...don't tell Harvey about that.” She pants after saying this, like speaking exerted almost all of her strength.  
I stand beside her in shock, eyebrows furrowed. “Don't...why, Haley? I believe it should at least be mentioned...” My hand finds her hair again, stroking in an attempt to bring her comfort. Moments of silence pass as Haley takes her time in regaining enough breath to speak once more.  
“Just...don't,” Haley finally rasps, uncovering her face to peer up at me. She seems dead serious about this, and I have a bad track record when it came to refusing such a stubborn expression. She continues, “I heard you guys earlier. We don't know anything about this...stuff.” She glances over to the container holding the putrid bile she'd spat up. “So telling Harvey about this would only upset him, right?”  
Now, were I a stronger man, I would easily be able to say no to this, and perhaps convince her that this new development was worth mentioning. But I lack the conviction Haley holds even when seriously ill. I begin to forge an argument anyways, but it still comes out as a beaten, “Alright.”  
Haley seems to relax when I say this. “Thank you, Elliott. I totally owe you.”  
“No, no,” I mutter, grabbing the container of Haley's vomit and moving to wash the black goo out of it. The evidence slips easily down the drain, like it had never happened. I cannot deny the pang of guilt at the thought of deceiving my dear, sweet Harvey in that way, but perhaps Haley's right. Our doctor would likely have a heart attack if he found out that gunk had been inside of Haley. What if it was poisonous? What if it had latched on to Haley's organs and was now failing them, one by one?  
I glance back at my golden-headed friend to find she's already asleep again, but she does seem so much healthier than when I first woke up. Perhaps I am just being a bit paranoid.  
It takes a full hour before Harvey returns to us, having shed his dark green suit coat in favor of working in his wrinkled dress shirt alone. Haley is out, floating somewhere among the stars, once more. The lights have yet to come on. In the dim light shining in from outside, sweat shines on his brow as he stumbles into the clinic and to where Haley sleeps and I wait patiently, in the sort of emergency room in the back. “Well,” he pants, sitting heavily down on the bed I had taken up earlier. “I can't get the generator up.” He pauses, wheezing, and leans back on his elbows, then shifts to pull his inhaler out of the pocket of his shed coat. “Shoot...”  
After a few puffs from the inhaler, he continues, “I yanked the cord probably a hundred times and nothing happened. Nobody else seemed to have a problem, from what I could see, but...phew. Geez. Is it hot in here? It's...it's hot in here.” He fanned himself and got up to check the thermostat, then seemed to remember that the power was out and thus the air conditioning wouldn't be working. He shook his head at himself and sat back down.  
“But I couldn't find anyone to ask anyways. Even Lucifer didn't show up until just a few minutes ago.” Harvey ran his forefinger and thumb over his mustache as his breathing slowed. “He tried to help me. Ended up yanking the pull-cord out of the generator.” He pulls the snapped cord from the pocket of his coat, which he'd left folded over the edge of the bed. “He's, ah...he's a lot stronger than he looks.” And I swear, even in the darkness, that he blushes as he says this. If I didn't know how often Harvey blushed on his own, no crush required, I may have been jealous. Well, yes, I am jealous, just...less so than I would be with anyone else. It's human to be envious, especially when one is envying time spent with you.  
“Where did he go after that?” I ask, absently stroking the back of Haley's hand and returning my gaze to her. The girl doesn't stir, just blissfully relaxes; blessedly, this sleep seems to be far more restful than the last few. Haley hasn't moved, save to breathe, since she drifted off.  
I can hear Harvey shifting about on the bed behind me, but I don't look back at him as he replies, “I'm not sure...but...I can handle looking after Haley if...you know...” He clears his throat and I am infinitely sure his cheeks are on fire again, without even turning around to check. I couldn't turn around now. I'm blushing as harshly as he must be. I can't even respond, so he continues where he left off. “...go after him...you could. I mean, he looked like he was on the way to the beach. Wouldn't it make sense if...after all of this...you wanted to go home, to the beach, now, and maybe...get some rest!”  
I look back at him in shock and confusion as he springs up from his seat.  
“Get some rest. At home. That's doctor's orders,” Harvey says, crossing his arms over his chest, which he's puffed out like some sort of hero. His face holds the expression of someone very satisfied with himself.  
I slowly withdraw my hand from Haley's. “Are you sure, Harvey? You didn't get very much sleep last night.” By now, through previous stretching and activity, my legs are no longer as numb and weak as they had felt when I first had woken. I cross the short distance to my friend and study his face in the darkness. Sure enough, the bags under his eyes and the pallid tone of his skin betray his exhaustion. He waves me off nonetheless, scoffing as though his lack of sleep was no big deal.  
“Elliott, don't worry about me. I've got a coffee maker. I've got...” Harvey gestures around the room for a moment, looking for some other object beneficial to his staying up longer. Upon finding nothing, he laughs and repeats, “Coffee. Elliott, I have coffee.” As if overdosing on caffeine is any sort of advice he'd give to anyone else in town.  
“Harvey,” I begin, genuinely concerned for my friend's health. While yes, my whole being yearns to be in your presence, that doesn't change the fact that Harvey has been one of my best friends for years. I could stand to stay rooted here for a while longer. “I don't mind staying here for your sake, and Haley's, as well. She...she woke up while you were out.”  
This distracts him. At my news, Harvey jerks in surprise. “She woke up? Really?” He peers past me to the vague, shadowy form of Haley as she slumbers on her uncomfortable cot. “I...I gave her more sedative than I really should have, though. For her size and all. I just wanted her out cold, but she--” He looks back at me, eyes wide behind his glasses. “She woke up. 'Up' up, or just for a second? Was she coherent? Did she say anything—did she see anything? Oh, damn it, I shouldn't have spent so long outside. I missed possible clues and now it'll be so much harder to--” His hands are rising up to the sides of his heads and he peers, sightless, down at the floor. I place my hand on his shoulder, looking him directly in his face.  
“Harvey, don't let yourself get into that nasty mind-space of yours,” I say gently, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “All she said was my name and 'please'.” I decide everything else she had said wasn't important to mention, especially all that Haley had very specifically told me not to tell our beloved doctor. As it is, Harvey seems focused enough on what I've already said that anything more might overwhelm him. Haley had been right about the black muck. Had I told Harvey about that, it would have overcome him.  
The doctor rushes over to Haley's bedside and begins study the girl's already restoring complexion, her steadied pulse, the rosy color returning to her lips and cheeks. Haley already seems leagues better than when I awoke, so much farther along than anyone would expect her to be. I suppose this must be a good sign, but Harvey seems nervous about it still. Then again, Harvey is always nervous about everything, so I must not take it to heart.  
What I do take to heart, however, is the fact that the newfound love of my life is mere feet away from my humble shack as I stand here and mourn my elder friend constantly losing his peace of mind. Perhaps you stand on my doorstep, waiting for me to return home. Perhaps you've already walked into my house. Perhaps you have rummaged through my belongings, looking for some keepsake of mine to hold on the lonely nights—but ah, ah, I mustn't think that way, lest I be tempted to do the same at the farm.  
“If...if you're sure, Harvey, I do believe I would love to get home,” I say after a moment, trying to tamp down the guilt at leaving Haley behind. But she's in the best hands Pelican Town has to offer, isn't she? Surely, all will be well if I advance the relationship she had been urging me to advance the day before. “At least to freshen up a bit,” I add, to soften my own guilt. If I'm not going to be gone for long, then perhaps Haley won't even know I've left.  
Harvey hardly nods in response, too busy to really pay much attention to me. I take this opportunity to dress in the newly washed clothes from the night I was brought in, then I hurry out of the clinic before Harvey can stop me or I can stop myself.  
Harvey was not tooling with me earlier when he said there was no one around to ask about the outage. The paths of Pelican Town are abandoned, without even the usual birds tutting about on the stones. The silence rings incessantly in my ears and I advance my walking speed. The only footsteps echoing are my own—oh, but wait, are they?  
Should I strain my ears and quiet my own quickened footfalls, I do believe the sound of footsteps following mine bounces off the walls of Pierre's shop. For some inconceivable reason, however, I cannot force myself to turn and look back at the source of these physical echoes until I reach the passageway to the beach.  
Behind me is...nothing. Well, of course, the village is there, the path, the plants, the mountains in the distance, but not one of these could follow me. Not one of these things could send my heart racing as it does now. Perhaps...perhaps I had only imagined the footsteps. In my already unwell state, with my mind focused so long on you, I had truly only heard my own footsteps echoing, and they've stopped because my feet fall on sand now. There would be no way to tell if it had been my own footsteps, of course, without going back to test the theory on the bridge.  
I do not go back.  
Instead I push onward through the hanging vegetation, toward the beach, expecting to see the newfound love of my life waiting on the shore. I can already picture you, standing proudly with your fishing pole in hand, boot-tips receiving gentle kisses from the willing sea. I believe you'd be a wonderful fisherman. You'd charm the fish from the sea. Were I a fish, I would bite your hook simply so you would draw me closer. Any pain, even a hook through the gills, I would suffer for your sake. Any injury, to body or soul, could be healed by the balm of your presence.  
Your presence, however, I find quickly that I lack. As I step out of the tunnel to the beach, I scan the shore with hope in my gaze, praying that my eyes will fall on you. When I find nothing but stinking seaweed and sun-baked driftwood, however, my heart gives a quiet cry and sinks as if to the sea floor. It belongs there, rotting with the remains of fishes recently slain, all ripped into putrid, indistinguishable little chunks.  
With sluggish steps I drag myself off toward my crumbling hovel, that decaying hull of a home, where ideas and dreams and perhaps myself go to die. In your absence, I begin allowing concerns about Haley's health and well-being to enter the void you have just left in my mind. I should not have left her, even for your sake. Especially for your sake. If I could let my friendship with Harvey, a relationship bounds less deep-rooted than my friendship with Haley, get in the way of coming to visit you, why would my friendship with Haley not stop me in the same way?  
I am truly a disgusting being, aren't I? Prioritizing you, a man I have merely met days ago, over the woman I have essentially shared my life with for years now, a good four years—the amount of time many spend in high school, in college. The amount of time it took for me to simply exist before I was put into tutoring. The space between American presidents. I've possibly damaged four years of my life over a few moments spent with you, you beautiful man-god who has done nothing wrong beyond entering my life.  
This is it, then. I am the center of all this malcontent, the disgusting, rotten core of an otherwise shining apple. I do not deserve my hut or my place in this town. I do not deserve to tarnish what little joy Haley has grown for herself over these years. After all she's been through, I should be a better friend to her. I should turn back now. Go back to Harvey's clinic and sit with her until she wakes up, and be there when she opens her eyes. She would do the exact same for me if she could.  
And yes, this is why I am a foul goo-creature, dripping with putrescence. I am useless to my friends, useless in my own romance, useless in my own career. I bring nothing to this world and expect so much out of it. No longer. I will do nothing and expect nothing. It must be what the universe would want from me by now.  
My hair falls all over my face, whipped by the wind, as I trudge miserably past the dead coals of my beach fire. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a colony of seagulls thrashing about in the remains of a sand castle, fighting over what seems to be a lump of white fish flesh. Fish flesh? I turn my head to gaze at this, my previously heavy mind filling with hope at the fact that there has indeed been fish pulled from the sea. My eyes frantically scan for any other sign of a fisherman's presence. Even if it were Willy, and not you, at least the old man of our sea would be more than willing to sit around the fire and share stories over fish stew with me.  
I'm still looking out over the water, walking close to my seaside cabin, as I slam directly into a broad chest.  
Oh. Oh. Oh. Could—could it be? Could it truly be you? Black boots, black pants, black shirt; my eyes travel up the length of you from sandy shoes to soaked shirt until my eyes meet yours, green to blue.  
And you're smiling. Oh. You're smiling like the sun smiles on the green earth. Like the sun glitters off the green sea. Oh, oh, oh, there is something growing in my heart for you, my heart like a greenhouse that I know you can see into. What with the way your eyes trail down to my lips, I know you can see every desire I hold for you. Every want. Every need. Every craving...  
Now, were this a novel written by my own hand, I would kiss you right now. I would plant my lips on yours and never let you go. My arms would lock around your neck, and you'd open the door to my cabin, and I'd remove all that kept your soul from baring itself to me, and the kiss would not end until tomorrow morning. We would be one creature locked in one shared emotion, one beautiful moment where only we existed and only we mattered.  
But this is real life, and kissing you like that would be less romantic than many novelists would have you believe. We've just barely met. I'd like to get to know your heart before I ask for it.  
“Are you...alright?” you ask me, voice audible even over the white noise of the ocean behind me. Your hand rests on my forearm and it occurs to me that I've been wavering on my feet this whole time. Your expression fades from happiness at seeing me to concern at seeing me in such a state as I'm in now. It breaks my heart to see you like this.  
I nod and carefully, oh so carefully, reach around you to open the door to my home. You step quickly out of the way and say nothing as I push past you.  
I realize have no clue what to say to you. I could elaborate on my response to your earlier question, but would that advance the conversation? Would it drive it even further into the dirt? I have no desire to ruin my chances with you, obviously. I just...want to speak to you, and hear your beautiful voice in return. I could do with that all day, every day, without tiring. Or maybe just spend my time kissing you—oh, to kiss you. I'm still tempted to do as such, but lack the desire to make even more of a buffoon of myself.  
Thankfully, you follow behind me and enter the singular room of my shack, so I do at least have time to do something while in your presence. But what, exactly, could I do? I stand near my closed-up piano for a moment, trying not to flinch as you study my living space. It all seems so messy and ugly now that I have you for comparison. Even that adorable little work of art Leah had done for me, that imaginative little cube on the wall, seems pretentious and boring when you pause to study it.  
The fear gets worse once you reach my writing desk, and only worse once yours eyes light up and you grab a half-finished, half scratched-out introductory paragraph.  
When you look back at me, I feel compelled to admit, “I...moved to Pelican Town with dreams of being a writer.” My own voice seems croakier than yours, but I can't stop myself. “No one back home believed I could succeed like this.” My family was never very education-oriented, especially for a family that still prided itself on being educated. It was mostly because they were proud we could afford to go to Ivy league schools and pay the full tuition on the spot. Otherwise, I would never have gotten into the university I had.  
You smile at me like you understand what I just said on a personal level, and the thought of your family ever disapproving of someone so lovely as you makes my heart ache. Who could ever disapprove of someone with a smile like that? With eyes like that? So kind and so gentle even with a near stranger so awkward as myself.  
“What books are your favorites?” I manage to spit out, approaching closer to your side to study the paper you'd picked up a moment before. I scan briefly over the available words and try to grown the tiny spark of inspiration that your presence fosters.  
A moment of silence passes. Your gaze warms my cheek and I'm infinitely sure you're looking at me instead of the paper. I tuck a heavy lock of hair behind my ear so you may get a better look at...whatever you're looking at. Finally, after so long, you say, “Romance.” My heart stops dead in my chest, but I try desperately not to let that show. My cheeks are on fire as I lay the sheet of paper down on the surface of my desk and glance shyly up at you.  
After catching my breath, I say softly, “Ah, one of those classic genres.” My voice is hardly above a sigh, and my heart's want of you grows so strong I am almost moved to tears. You knew exactly what I wanted you to say, before I even asked you, didn't you? Perhaps our souls are already intertwined. I wouldn't doubt it, and I would not have a problem with it, either. I continue, voice breathy, “I'll remember that.”  
We look at each other for a moment, eyes meeting once more. My whole being feels drawn to yours and I briefly consider reaching out to touch you, but find that my body won't move. I'm frozen in your gaze, but dear Yoba, my body feels so warm.  
I must break this trans somehow. “You...” I rip my eyes away from yours and the first thing they land on is the wilted rose plant on my desk. “You probably know a good bit about plants, don't you?” My eyes flicker back to you and this is a massive mistake, because coherent words disappear from my vocabulary until I look back at my rose. “My rose. It seems to be wilting. Could you take a look at it?”  
To your credit, you nod instead of laughing in my face, and move to inspect my flower. In doing so, your side presses into mine.  
Were we to touch in any more intimate way, I have no doubt that I would explode. Simply just explode, because at this simple touch, my heart races, my cheeks flame up, my hands tremble. I want more. Simply more of you, infinitely so. I make it my goal today, right now, that I will one day have more of you, be it just more of your presence. Some part of you will be mine.


	8. 17 Spring, Year 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: minor discussion of sexual acts at end

     One week later, I beg of my dear Haley, “Please, dear, get some sleep.” My unread book lay open across my lap and my hand rests on my friend's upper arm. She gives no audible response, so I squeeze her arm. This prompts her to turn on her side in the bed to glare at me with bleary, narrowed eyes.

     She mutters grumpily, “Elliott, go home.” Her voice cracks and she ducks under her downy quilt, more than willing to return to ignoring me for the fifteenth time today. She hasn't been able to ignore me for long, however; the longest she's lasted so far has been, by my own account, less than ten minutes. “Harvey said you need to go home,” she continues in a sort of whine that trails off into a groan by the final word. Her voice is muffled by the layers of fabric and feathers over her mouth.

     Normally, it would strike me through to the heart even dulled by muffling, but I've built up a thicker skin these past few days. One can only withstand so many curses before they built up a sort of immunity or delve deeply into trauma; fortunately for Haley's sake, I've spent a lifetime building up a thicker skin perhaps just for the future sake of befriending her. For the sake of the past few week, even. The point being, of course, that her initial pleading for me to leave, then her outright fury these past few days, have had little effect on me.

     I've stayed planted by her side for days on end now, ever since that first night when I'd gone home. I'd returned to Harvey's clinic the next morning to find Haley had already gone home for bed rest; it was at that moment that the guilt truly washed over me. Had I truly spent most of that day mooning after you instead of caring for my bedridden best friend? I had. And now I pay for it, and assuage my guilt, by

     I shake my head and close my book, saying, “I don't care what Harvey said. I'm staying.” Nonetheless, I do stand from my chair beside her bed, but only to stretch my legs. My knees crack, prompting Haley's bare face to pop out from under the comforter once more so she may glare at me. I take her expression to be one of both confusion and surprise.

     “Then why are you getting up? Are you actually listening to me?” Haley asks, uncovering her face and forcing herself somewhat upright. It takes all my strength not to reach out and assist her. My resistance comes much easier when she speaks again. “Wow, you haven't done that in, like, a entire week. Amazing. Just abso-fucking-lutely incredible. I don't know how you've survived this long without listening to me. I mean, seriously, how many times has it gone wrong? Once? Literally once? And only when I was being kind enough to help teach you how to get some actual dick. So, really, you owe me my peace and quiet, right?”

     I think this might be it. I open my mouth to speak on my own behalf, but no, this is not it.

    “Because if you weren't so, I don't know, romantically challenged, I wouldn't have had to help you in the first place, right?” Haley continues, showing more energy and strength than I've seen in her in days. “I wouldn't still be hacking up black goop and throwing up every time I move, right? I wouldn't be bedridden, _right_?” She's glaring at me now, and I actually flinch. This seems to give her the strength to continue. “Just...go to the saloon or something. Get drunk. Let me sleep without you waking me up every twenty minutes.”

     Haley turns so her back is to me, then pulls her blanket back up over her head. Silence befalls the bedroom and I hesitate, moving my weight back and forth on each foot. What to do, what to do? This is usually an easy enough choice: listen to Haley and all will go well. But now, my guilt is roaring at me. My best friend's health is on the line. Emily can't be with her all the time, though I know at this time of the day she would be in her bedroom right now, knitting.

     “Alright,” I finally say, nodding my head in assent. Though she can't see me, I bow and leave her bedroom, my head hanging low. Had I a tail, it would curl between my legs.

     It takes half a request for Emily to leave her bedroom and go check on Haley, and I regret not relying on the older sister more often this week. Had I really thought I was the only one in Haley's life who would care for her? I surely must lack sorely whatever intelligence I'd had before this week, lost in the sludge of whatever tar-like lake I'd fallen into. I suppose I ought to go to the Stardrop and lose what few brain cells I have left. Perhaps it would do me some good to go numb for a bit, allow my mind to wander over less serious things than my best friend's survival and adamant desire to rot in her bed.

    The saloon has just barely opened by the time I arrive. Usually, at times like this, Gus would still be wandering around Pierre's or back in his rooms, watching television or enjoying a beer of his own. Not even Pam shows up to the saloon at twelve in the afternoon. However, thank Yoba above, there Gus is. He's wiping out a glass behind the counter. He nods at me, but gives not much more of an acknowledgment until I sorrowfully settle in on a creaky, outdated bar stool.

     “What's going on, Elliott?” he asks, leaning down to fill the newly wiped mug from the barrel tap under the bar. As I try to think of a way to respond, he places the foaming beer in front of me, saying, “On the house,” before going back to cleaning another mug, one that already looked spotless. “You look down.”

     I tilt my head, letting my hair fall to the side so I might rub the back of my neck. “Well...It's only that I'm worried for Haley's sake. I'm sure you've heard about her illness.” While everyone closely involved has kept the peculiar particulars of the incident under wraps, it would be impossible not to notice the lack of a certain golden blond around town. I know Emily's probably told everyone and their mother about her sister being sick, however; she means well, but she will talk one's ear off if given the chance to do so.

     Gus nods and fills up his own mug of beer. The foam hisses for a few seconds before he speaks. “Yeah, I heard. You here to get her some soup or something? I've got parsnip soup, fresh made a couple of weeks ago.” He sips from his mug, undoubtedly catching a mustache hair or two. “Pretty good stuff. That farmer kind really knows how to grow some parsnips. Sure does.” He sips his beer while nodding to himself and peering out at nothing. “Big ole parsnips...”

     I look at him for a moment, then back down at my beer. I wish to never speak of parsnips around Gus, ever again. “Thank you for the beer, Gus, but I can't take it on the house.” Digging around in my coat pocket, I manage to scrounge up four dull coins and deposit them all on the bar. They're some of my last, but there's no way I can give in to his kindness so easily. I may live on the borderline of poverty now, but a childhood ruled by a blue-blooded mentality will stay with an individual for years after their fall from grace.

     Gus merely pushes the coins back towards me and downs his beer before washing his mug again. I sigh through my nose and take the coins back, shaking my head the whole time.

     “May I at least pay for the next one, then?” I ask hopefully. There's a root of stubbornness growing through my heart and I still lack the sense to yank it out before it can cause me any more trouble than it already has. The root's been there for years, but it only shows itself when matters of pride are involved. Oh, if only Haley more often presented to me a dilemma concerning my pride as opposed to my confidence or, say, fight or flight instinct. Perhaps then I would be able to say no to her.

     “No,” Gus tells me easily before going back to working around his bar station. I want to fight this point further, but find I can't.

     I cannot even say no to Gus, the most easily distracted business owner in all of the valley. However, should I build up the nerve, I could slip these four coins into the till if I wanted to. I know Emily always counts out the day's earnings at the end of the night, not Gus, so she wouldn't know any different. His back is turned. I'm leaning over the bar. I could do this, right now.

     “Hey, Gus!”

     I nearly drop my coins, but I manage to hold on to them as I scramble back down onto my stool. Ah, blast that—that—that thumb-twiddler! That drunkard old woman, that bane of the town, that wretched hag, that bruise on Penny's lovely cheek! Were it not for Pam, I would've easily slipped these four coins into the cash register and assuaged my mounting guilt. But now I must sit stiffly on my bar stool, doing my best to remain civil while this woman, already reeking of alcohol, slips onto a bar stool near mine.

     Gus quickly approaches the older woman, all laughter and smiles, and strikes up a conversation with her while all-too-conveniently leaning on the cash register. And yes, I know, this is a ridiculous reaction to such a simple thing, but I haven't slept much this week, and when am I ever not dramatic? Drama was in my bones before I ever came to this town; constant exposure to my beloved Haley only worsens my proclivity for the over-theatrical. Still, self-awareness does not dull the reaction.

     I throw back my whole beer, which I normally would never, ever do, especially at the moment. My constitution is weak on a good day. Now, after so little sleep, with such a grievous illness just behind me and my best friend's illness still present, I must say I am definitely not in the finest shape to be drinking so quickly. My stomach gurgles and swirls, and I am hit with a heavy wave of nausea. This was certainly not my greatest idea to day, even as lacking as the great ideas may be. Regret follows the nausea. I should certainly not have drunk a beer down so quickly. I know far better than to ever do such a thing, especially when I ate nothing for breakfast this morning, nor anything for dinner last night.

     Before I can make a fool of myself and expel the fine beer all over Gus' clean floor, I heft myself to my feet and stumble across the near empty saloon, clutching chairs along the way. Gus doesn't seem to notice me, even when I knock over a chair. It clatters to the floor and I scramble to pick it up. Gus still pays me no mind. I take this opportunity to slip out the door as quickly and as quietly as possible.

     “Dear Yoba,” I whisper to myself, reaching down to straighten my coat-sleeves. What sort of drunkard artist could I ever be if I can't handle a mere single glass of beer? If Poe could see me now, would he be ashamed or relieved?

     Nonetheless, I begin the slow shuffle back toward the beach, nursing my wounded pride and my swirling stomach.

     Of course. Of course, as always, there you are—at my worst of times, there you are, walking along the cobbled path to the door of the saloon with your night-sky head hanging unconsciously low. I can see no trace of sadness upon your lovely countenance, but sweat glimmers on your brow and I must say, dirt-smears have never looked so chic as they do on you. Perhaps farming will enter the fashion world, once the fashion world is blessed enough by any creator above to find you out.

     I could swear I'm invisible until your eyes land upon me. I have never known joy until your gaze warms my flesh, lightening up at my sight. When your hand raises in greeting, it is as if the sun itself has cast a ray down upon the earth, for only myself to bask in.

     “Elliott,” you say.

     Is this my name? I doubt this now. Could a vocalization so sweet ever be directed at me, me, of all creatures on this planet? Me, a waste of air, a waste of the grass I flatten under my feet? An aging never-was, shriveling away from one simple beer drank in the company of only myself; a shivering sack of bones with dying dreams of carving out a new reality for all who may touch my work; a thinning twenty-something who clings tightly to his friends and his alcohol for the sake of survival...pitiful. Could your voice ever truly be directed at me?

     It seems to be as such, for when I give no reply to your name-based inquisition, you approach. “Elliott,” you repeat, peering down at me with concern evident in your electric gaze. Yes, yes, this is my name. It always was, yes, but it's new, coming from your lips. All of English is reborn once it grows out of your precious brain and past your lips. I could never form words so beautiful as ordinary words seem, coming from you.

     Before I even realize it, I'm pushing past you, back into the saloon. I have no clue why I've done this, no clue why in Yoba's name I would dare leave you behind. Gus is still talking to Pam at the bar, so I simply slip back into my seat and...well, I suppose I just wait for you to enter the saloon behind me and sit by my side. And of course, you do, because I get a strong feeling you're the courteous sort and wouldn't let me get away from you without checking up on my health.

     But you don't speak to me when you sit down, surprisingly enough. I can't say if this is good or not. Yes, it's good because I don't have to fumble through my rapidly decreasing vocabulary in order to reply to you, and it's good because I suppose that finding a peaceful sort of silence with someone is how to tell that I could spend an extended period of time with them. However, it does leave room for worry. Has my lack of speech put you off? Have I come off as daft enough that you may consider me as needing your supervision? Could my silence make you more concerned, especially considering your involvement with my recent accident on your farm?

     Gus interrupts before I can even think of any way to break the silence. “Hey, Farmer Lucifer. What can I get you?” He's all smiles, all twinkling eyes—and then he winks at me, as if he knows my thoughts and feelings for you better than I know them myself. “We've got the lovebird special going on,” the portly bartender says.

     He's dastardly! A villain! A cruel love-mongering matchmaker sent from the pits of the inferno, come to torment me over my pathetic little infatuation. I curse him with every furious particle of my soul, but somehow manage to remain civil on the outside, for I realize I have a bit of an upper hand over this man.

     “You know,” I begin, turning to you. “I've just spent eight hours writing.” I normally would never lie to you, of course, but for my plan to play out, I do believe it'll seem better if I deserve alcohol. "I do believe I'll have a drink. Will you?” Oh, I am sly. I've already beaten Gus at his own game, and he doesn't even know it yet.

     You wonderful creature, you glowing seraph, you agree to drink with me with a nod and a smile that could light the vernal sky.

     “Bartender, fetch me two ales, please.” I place my four coins on the bar's worn wooden surface. Yes, Gus had said my drink would be free, but he'd said nothing of your drink. I cannot abide by his charity, not when an ancient bloodline of nobility, both presidential and royal, looks down on me from the heavens for accepting it. Though I do appreciate his caring. It is comforting to know I'm mostly welcome in this town, after spending years here.

     Gus shakes his head at me, smiling. The corners of his eyes crinkle up with age and joy both. “Fine, fine, Elliott. You win. Two ales, coming right up.” He takes my coins and fills up two mugs, still looking so amused as he smiles underneath his massive mustache. I still feel as though I've won, however. This is something he cannot take from me for all the slick little smirks he can offer up.

     Once Gus places the mugs on the bar before the two of us, I turn once more to you and beam with all the joy my heart can afford. “Well,” I begin, slipping my fingers through the looped handle of the beer mug. “I propose a toast...to...”

     You're smiling at me, like you know what's just gone down and you're proud of me for winning. Oh, how I crave your pride in me. The craving takes up my whole being, pushing out my whole vocabulary to make room for itself. Whatever clever little toast I'd begun to craft in my mind evaporates into nothing, like some ghostly phantasm I shall never grasp again. Try as I might, my words are gone.

     “To...” I begin again, averting my gaze. Heat rises to my face. More people have begun to enter the saloon as the sky begins to darken outside and the candles all over the building light up golden-warm. The hum of activity falls over the warming building.

     And yet, despite the crowd, here you are, my heavenly knight in shining armor. Above the noise, you speak. “To our friendship.” You raise your mug to me, grinning so that I can see the shape of every tooth. No teeth are like these. None are so fine as yours. I wonder if those would be passed down to children.

     I can feel a great warmth filling me like the glow filling the saloon, and I wonder, how many types of love can there be? As I gaze at you, I feel a certain way, and when I study those around me, I feel a certain other way. I can look at Haley and feel passionately, platonically in love with her, and the feeling is just as intense as my unending desire to be yours. And I will be yours.

     The night passes far more smoothly than I could have ever expected it to. Our single mugs of beer last us well into the night as I babble on and on about my writing career. For something that's so nonexistent, I end up having quite a bit to say about it as the alcohol loosens my tongue and definition of 'interesting' both. I have no doubt I'll look back on this in the morning and regret every move I've made, but with the buzz of alcohol in my head, everything seems right. Even the fact that I'm making up ninety-five percent of the conversation.

     Sometime just before midnight, you place your hand over mine on the bar, effectively shutting me up so you can say, “I ought to get home, Elliott. Big day of farming tomorrow.”

     Even drunk, I'm conscious enough of you still to stop functioning when you place your hand over mine. I consider: is this simply a friendly touch? Could this be something more than friendly? Are you taking a liberty I have not yet bestowed upon you?--but oh, Yoba above, have I been touching you all night? I wouldn't doubt it, and as I run through my vague memories of tonight, if I find it to be true.

     A touch here or there is nothing, I suppose, in such close quarters and over alcohol. However, I'm sure there's definitely a line between simple friendliness and flirtation—could I have crossed it sometime tonight? What with the way you've smiled so lovingly at me, the gentle warmth in your gaze, the way you lean forward every time I speak, I have reason to believe I've been flirting tonight without even stopping to think about what I was doing. Is it really so easy?

     “Of course,” I finally manage to say, my cheeks filling up with fire once more as I realize you haven't even withdrawn your hand from mine on the bar. “Can I walk you home? It's...it's awfully dark, isn't it.” My fingers intertwine with yours. Is this...is this flirtation? Am I being smooth? Or have I crossed from flirtation into Clint territory?

     I hope not.

     To your credit, you wonderful creature, you nod with an understanding little smirk and stand with your warm hand still in mine. We leave the saloon without even looking at any of the other villagers. They could have all disappeared, for all I know.

     Thousands and thousands of miles above us, the stars blink in and out of sight as they drift behind and before the dark blanket of the sky. The moon gazes down at us. Fireflies flicker as though the stars have come to dance around us, and an owl glides above us as we follow the path back through town.

     “How has farm life been treating you?” I ask. My words slur somewhere in the middle, I believe, but I don't know if they really do or not. I would be willing to bet I'm slurring, though. My hand extricates itself from yours so I may wrap my fingers around your elbow instead. The action just seems a bit more...withdrawable. More explainable. This is simply reverse of the way I walk around town with Haley, a mere friend, nothing more. Should you have suspicions of my infatuation, holding on to your arm should surely smooth things over, correct?

     Except...oh, dear. Oh, oh, dear.

     I try to remain inconspicuous as I squeeze your upper arm and nearly swoon at the muscles hiding under your black shirt sleeve. Is this truly the product of only seventeen days of farming? Could it be? No. It can't be. Maintaining a facade of innocent friendship will be much harder, with the quickly growing fantasy of you, farming, with no shirt.

     I really must get to work on this romance novel of mine before I burst at the seams.

     “Well...” you finally begin to say, and it occurs to me that I should be thankful you haven't been speaking the whole time I've been buried in my own fantasy world. “It's lonely on the farm.” Your voice is rough, but you seem to be pushing through. For my sake. I could die, right here, right now, and fall into your arms a very beautiful and very drunk corpse. “I'm building a coop, however, and I'll start raising...”

     Your voice trails off, and I find you glancing over at me with a giddy little smile. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, and briefly, I wonder just how old you are. You can't be much older than I am, surely. But yes, what did you want to say? Am I speaking aloud? I am not.

     Fortunately, you continue after a moment of internalized excitement, “I'm raising ducks starting tomorrow. I...I heard you like duck feathers.” You place your free hand over where mine rests on your arm, and I'm suddenly very, very concerned about my heart health. I need to talk to Harvey...Harvey! Haley! Haley is sick, and bedridden, and angry, and I'm drunkenly stumbling around in front of the bus station with the local farmboy! Yes, my darling angel, you may indeed be the love of my life, but I must get to bed so I can be at her bedside first thing in the morning.

     Am I speaking aloud? Or am I merely gazing up at you, all dopey and drunken? I have a sneaking suspicion that it's the latter, because we're chest to chest. Your hand rises to cup my cheek.

     “You do, don't you?” I hear you ask, just barely above a whisper. At least it seems to be at that volume. I can only focus on the fact that your lips are mere inches from mine...close enough that in the moonlight, I can see three little freckles on your bottom lips, the product of what I hope were happy days spent in sunshine. You deserve joy such as that, and beyond. I only wish to one day bright a fraction of that light into your life.

     But now is not the time for illumination; now is the time for evacuation. “Yes, but I'm afraid this is as far as I can take you tonight. I need to get to bed early so I might wake with the sun.” At least, I believe this is what leaves my mouth, but the confusion on your face is not exactly reassuring. However, when the confusion melts to disappointment and you step away from me, I have to wonder if you'd expected more from the night than just being walked home by a drunken author. Perhaps I had spoken true after all.

     What a revelation, though. I could really have just...slipped into your bed tonight. Had I not stopped in front of the bus stop, we could be kissing right now, in the dark living room of your farmhouse. The way I've admittedly fantasized over several times since the day we met. I could see bared the strong arm I'd held on to mere moments ago. But no, here I am, pulling farther away from you with a face as warm as your embrace.

     “Goodnight, farmer Lucifer,” I bid, averting my eyes as I step away from you. I've put a good foot between us. “I hope you sleep well.” This doesn't seem like enough of a goodbye, so I lean up and peck your cheek before I can overthink it.

     And just like that, I'm headed back down the path. I stumble on every rock in the dirt, of course, but I'm leaving straight-backed nonetheless. There will be other, better nights for loving you like young people do.

 


End file.
